The act has closed,
and the curtain been called,
so ignore the applause
as your heart lays; stalled.

The director yelled "cut,"
as you felt the crowd cheer,
it ripped through your soul
and "cut" you with a jeer.

The mask that you wear
and the lines that you spew,
show nothing of acting,
just a mock version of you.

So catch the bouquet
as I hurl it at you,
enjoy your new penthouse,
that empty room with a view.

It’s overwhelming.
The urge to scream,
and scream until my lips turn blue.
And my throat grows red,
and my hair stands straight up as though I were hit by lightning.

The will power
used to contain my never ending exasperation,
along with frustration,
is enough to shut down
all of the nuclear power plants in France;
although a meltdown might be more lethal.

But maybe being lethal is what I crave;
years of smiling and
moving aside built up
into an explosive pile of nicety and rage.

Light the wick,
and I promise I won’t fail to explode;
though it always seems
I’m more adept at imploding.

I will disappear for hours, days, months, and the occasional year. It’s not something I plan. It’s not something I can help, and it’s not something I like. But I ignore my phone, abandon my computer mid-conversation, and like to sit alone sometimes. 

It’s not you, it’s me (the one time you’ll hear that and it will be true). There are times when I crave attention, appreciation, and acknowledgement. But then come the anxieties, the stresses, and the loathing that follow each of those. Occasionally, even the softest touch can send shivers of pure disdain rocketing over synapses. 

I wear a veil of invisibility, irrelevance, and though it is frequently lifted or brushed aside, know that it always remains, that it will always cast shadows.

I cringe at what I see,
reflected cleanly, though
******, battered and useless.
The breath wasted on
such a life form is quite
simply astronomical;
astounding how pathetic
impressions turn out to be.

Hearts keep aching and
faking, just praying someone
will take heed, take the
lead on the excavation
of that diamond in the rough
that I so clearly see
hovering over the bathroom sink.

If the chiseling and the
scraping doesn't dissolve
the diamond altogether;
if the diamond exists
at all.

And if it doesn't
no great loss, merely
a few chipped tools
and a burdened mirror;
always left to survey
and report upon the
damage of a plummeting
self image reflection.

I've never wanted a rock
to weigh me down, anyway.

people collect labels
like scars and gold stars
to decorate and define
the deliberately drawn lines
of their existence
dotted, pencil, pen.

sometimes people mistake names for explanations
e.g "I don't eat meat
because I'm a vegetarian"
but circularity
negates all meaning.

socially prescribed pigeonholes
don't determine
who you are
why you are
how you are
or
who you'll be.

I find the delicate pieces
of a human spirit
so hard to contain.

They reach out,
so often,
towards things that promise
only harm
and heartbreak.

Their optimism is striking.

Like a child...
  untainted,
  unbroken,
  and head held high with innocence.

If only we can preserve
that optimism and innocence
and hold it tight against our breast
throughout life.

Imagine what we could see,

       and all that we've been missing.

We decide to believe
in the truth or the lie;
to insure our success,
or resolve to not try.

We become who we want,
and starve who we've been;
by deflating the conscience
of thoughts, all-too grim.

The past can escape us,
but from it, we can't flee;
the way to be happy
is to decide to be free.