what lie spawns from this murk,
muttering, slithering, telling us
that we may banish our troubles
if only we turn our eyes from them? -
that simply playing the actor's role
for a world that suits the histrionic
can change who we are?
projections of detachment
through routine ignorance
will not fool the world we inhabit -
can not fool those who know us best -
for they both know what cripples our minds.
the beast named doubt had sticky fingers,
made away with all our self-assurance
one day when we weren't guarding it too close.
we pretend we were too clever for it's ruse,
say we saw right through, kept intact -
we say it strong, with faux confidence:
paper-thin, the clearest falsehood.
we are the ones with impurities
striking our skin at ugly angles,
cracks in the resolve we chase after
that turn to cliffs we cling to
for the smallest thought
we can fight what ails us
by simply taking shelter in ourselves
and turning the lights out.