Every-
where
I go
I wear
a mask

Maybe everybody does
I have no way of knowing

My mask is painted with
calm

Yellow and green and blue
softly intertwining

forming a slight smile
a collected person

who knows they
know themselves.

But inside I am a storm.
I whirl and rage and nothing is ever
as it seems.

Inside I am deep blue
fiery red.

Sometimes if you look
you see splotches of
the others.

Are they there naturally
or has my mask bled through?

Does it really matter?

Sometimes I need my mask
cling to it like a life preserver

who will I be if I let it go?

It is my safety blanket
a key (the kind that a map has)
a list of rules to follow
so I color in the lines.

Other times all I want is for somebody to
see beneath my mask.
To see who I really am
and accept me.

Otherwise how can they really
love me?

Face value is something
that should never
be taken.

And coloring in the lines
is overrated and outdated.

but love
(no matter what they say)
is built on beautiful, sweet deception
the kind that only our hearts can make.

but love
(no matter what they say)
is built on truth and trust
those essential things that are so known
they cannot be a lie.

Which one is true?
(they both are)

Which one is true?
(and neither)

What was I talking about in the first place?
I am sure it was something different
and yet essentially the same

Ah yes

I was talking about my mask

What was it that they like to say?
"can't live with 'em"
"can't live without 'em"

I suppose I should leave now
I've taken up too much of the Time

But is that me speaking?
or my mask?

Does it really matter when the mask is made of flesh?
The flesh of lies and secrets?

"I guess it doesn't"
they say
as I walk out the door.