She moves those hips hypnotically
As she smiles through her slender long fingers
Speaking with her big beautiful onyx-black eyes
Ah, Will you just look at her grace?

Her saree painted rich brass
With amber brown motif on the edges
Heavy indian anklets adorn her ankles
Her skin so golden on which sunshine sketches.

Glorious, every little move she makes
Flamboyant, her mehendi feet, the way they part and meet
All the energy any strong man can have,
Reflected in her elegant femine beauty, sincere and discreet.

Like a goddess, she holds her head high
And showers you with her immortal blessings
When she gets down the stage with a humble smile
You'd exclaim "paradise on earth" with a sigh.

Masks,
we all wear them,
at least from time to time.
Don't try to deny it.
That girl who seems cheery all the time,
who always has a jacket on, or a sweater,
to hide the cuts,
and more importantly,
her Mask.
The little kid who sits alone at lunch,
who, "just isn't social",
because if he plays with others,
they'll see the bruises,
the beatings will show through.
Again, always wearing a jacket or somesuch,
but again,
more importantly,
his Mask.
Me,
me, who barely gets by,
without just exploding,
and hurting those he loves,
and wants to just be able to be STABLE,
just to see what it feels like.
I wear my faded jeans,
my gloves, to hide the bloodied knuckles,
from just punching whatever's at hand,
my boots,
to keep my toes breaking when I kick things,
but most importantly,
my Mask.