Is it not as ironic,
As an addict without a high,
To present a false face,
And never truly know why?

We suffer in silence,
In society's iron grip,
Secretly hiding the truth,
From its judgemental whip.

But why hide the truth?
Right now, I'm not sure.
With this madness I have,
I long for a cure.

Behind this stone heart,
Insecurities dwell alone,
In a place in the dark.
Not a ray of light shown.