sometimes in the dead of night i
wonder if you ever fight
the demons that i sometimes do-
if they have ever come for you

and sometimes i think, "no, you can't"
because you never scream or rant
because you're smiling all the time
and fit life like the perfect rhyme-

but then i leave my thinking place
and scrutinise my own pale face
and smile into the looking glass
-a cheerful mask, a happy farce-

i do not know you very well
because i don't think i can tell
when your smile's real,
and when it's not
(and when it's really all you've got)