I’m wearing a smile,
but the smile’s a lie.
I’m holding back tears,
but my eyes remain dry.

They say the way to the soul,
is seen through the eyes,
but if that is the truth,
then you can see my soul’s died.

I’m emotionally weak,
but too stubborn to break.
I scream at myself,
for being so ******* fake.

No one would know,
how broken I am.
Lying is my art form,
and self hatred’s my jam.

How can you love yourself,
when you hate who you are?
Hiding behind falseness,
like skin behind scars.

Maybe one day,
this disguise will explode.
Then you’ll see the real me,
and my world will implode.

Till then it’s my secret,
between me and myself.
So just look at my smile,
and ignore everything else.

If the voice spoke to me,
                           I'd get my gun.
Put  it to my temple,
                   as this is the only one that I know Is real...

                                    and say...
Speak to me,
                    this is my temple,
and if nothing answered.


I knew to put a sky light
                              from where they came..


My temple is hollow and the voices
               were my insanity
colluding me to false promises




of virtue...

I reel you in with honeyed words,
That only you can read.
I reel you in with hooks and spears,
I reel to make you bleed.
I speak to you in riddles,
Decode them with my smile.
I speak to you in poetry,
I speak to you in guile.
It's not you I'm deceiving,
I'm too busy with myself.
I write my book of ciphers,
It's there for you on the shelf.

Mr Smith had never thought about

The fake flowers on the drawers.
That beauty which makes death feel ignored,
But looks unripe in any vase
And isn’t right for wedding cars -

Their petals never sought to solve
His seven word soliloquy.
There’s no rose bed on recovery
When after all, she loves him not.

He knows it from their scrutiny,
That untimely unchapped litany
That blush of plush longevity
Adored; while he withers.

Mr Smith’s preferred were pansies,
For ‘their faces crumpled under sunlight’,
He’d shuffle stems like decks; green necks
To warm and sweeten death.

The pansies were his calendar -
Life measured against death
Kept his watches ticking;
The thirsty amber skins were pages comprised

Of how he hated plastic petals
With a pale and putrid pith,
Their purpleness was slothful
And their pulchritude a myth

Of mocking murmurs mumbling
Memories -
As insipid as the very falseness
Binding up their limbs -
Of the August day in ‘54
When the fake flowers on the drawers
Were white against her whiter brow -
As perfect then, as they are now.

Reality is what separates the real me and what you see
Reality is what we call it
but how come we can never be real in this world we call reality?
In order to survive reality
we must change, conform to the standards set by this "reality"
we must hide the "real" us. Lock it up inside the box we call the mind
The real me only now exist in an imaginary world made by my mind
Facing reality another persona is created
A fake who lives in Reality
Someone who is kind hearted and good.
Always pleasing people.
Praisng the one's higher in heirarchy.
Never forgets good manners
Always says thank you
when the "me" inside my mind just shouts out
"*******"

Reality is what separates the real me and what you see

My body aches
From the back breaking pain
That you enforced on me
Every sad day.
I want to open my quivering
Lips
To tell you,
No Scream at you
"That this is not the end"
"I will get you back."
You caused me so much
That my eyes are forever dull.
I want to tell you
I hate you.
But it seems that my
Lips will remain shut
Because now I am looking
At your barren grave
Hoping that you are where you
Belong.
Now that you are out
Forever gone from
My life,
I will become the
Depiction of false happiness.
However I will always remember
All your sins and
The scars that are buried deep
In my recovering skin.
Hoping that I can be a story of survival.

Oranges and greens
go paint your dreams
but I'll wear my shroud
under a dark black cloud
your equitus smiles
and falseness beguiles
ashen faced frowns
on the face of the clowns
the paint that you wear is a thin veneer
a veil of crimson over all that you fear
so sup the wine and let it flow
for what you shall reap is all that you sow

Ah deceit, you wicked *******
creeping up uninvited, as always
no one sees you coming
none will know when you’re gone
your delicious lies stay but for an instant
and here still, you find a cue
to salt the exposed wounds.

You were never missed
your many forms, vibrant faces
the infamy and calumny
stories unchecked and forgotten
buried under the moniker of bygones.
Yet the scars remain,
deep cuts betrayal, but never fills.

The entrusted deceiver
your snake in the grass
silence is deadlier than a sharp tongue
this venom cannot drown a writhing heart
hope, kindling another tragedy
the reasons are always above par
emotions run amuck behind bars.

The tongue blackens every time
you sever the threads which bind loyalty
leaving the void to **** away the remains
into a crushing dark abyss
the face carries a smile that never fades
the heart has long since withered to naught
now, it cheats itself to bitter death.