I wear a mask
That isn't adorned by any jewels
I wear the simple white mask
That was made from my mother's skin
And it sits uncomfortable and stuck,
Covering the suffering of my father
Covering the suffering of my grandfather
Covering the suffering of my own secret self.
I wear a mask
By no one's choice but life
I wear the simple white mask
That sits stoic and still,
And I tried once to pry it off,
But it was nothing more than skin,
And under was nothing more than muscle
And under was nothing but blood and bone
I wear a mask
That will not hide my blemishes
I wear the simple white mask
That will not define me
And I remind myself of this
As someone asks me what I am
As someone asks me what my father was
As someone asks me what my grandfather was
And my mask stays its stoic grin
And my mask stays my tongue.