Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Some disguises aren't meant to be revealed
Some thoughts aren't meant to be spared
Some beasts aren't meant to be chaotic
Some evenings aren't meant to be charming
Some paintings aren't meant to be catchy
Some belongings aren't meant to be buried
Some flowers aren't meant to be favourites
Some incidents aren't meant to be happening
Some people aren't meant to be suffering
Nigel Finn May 2016
Sometimes I watch the others,
So comfortable in their skins
Of whatever form they've chosen,
Or miraculously been blessed with,
And remain a passive observer
Of the beauty before me.
I view their spirit animal forms,
Alongside the incarnations of gods,
and goddesses, and other holy beings,
Dance across their human flesh.

When viewed closely I can see
The smallest units of infinity
Struggling to expand, sometimes succeeding,
Other times dying and quickly vanishing,
To be suddenly replaced by elements
Of others, or the world around them.
They are cloaked in visions
My words can't comprehend,
Which I have heard some call yugen.

Other times I find myself
Wanting to join in with the excitement;
I flit between the disguises that
I have made for myself, in
An effort to seamlessly fit in
Unzipping one skin as discreetly as possible,
and hastily pulling on the next
As I rush from group to group,
Hoping nobody sees who lies within.

I have no concept of my own beauty.
Mirrors do nothing to help, being
designed to only reflect a physical presence.
I suppose that- to a piece of glass-
An eyebrow is just an eyebrow,
And lips are just lips.

If you could see beneath the reflections
Of your own selves I had tried to create,
I am afraid of what you might see
The bitterness that lies beneath.
My multiple fa├žades sometimes breaks free,
And slowly breaks whoever is before me,
Causing mouths to form wide O's of horror,
Or else silences them completely.

This skin I inhabit is not my home-
I appreciate it's gloriousness and accept,
As I do in others, the meanest emotions it conceals,
And treat it as I would any other. I
Wish it no harm, and would be loath
To abandon it on some distant kerb
Like an unloved pet.

My Celtic forefathers had a word to describe this;
"Hiraeth"- a longing for a home that never was,
Or a place one can only recall in distant
Memories; unrecountable to those who
Never knew of its existence to begin with.

Maybe the skins I wear are part
Of my journey home; pupating like
A moth who longs to search for the light,
Yet lacking the wings to do so.
Perhaps they are only walls of my
Own devising, covering the window
To my own soul, that writhes inside
Like some contorted navel.

All I know is that the parts of you
I have stolen, or borrowed, or bought,
Or acquired through other means
Are the closest to home I have ever been,
Enabling me, in those brief moments,
To view the homes you keep within yourselves,
Until you reach out and touch me,
Causing me to run away, tail between legs,
Before my true self can be seen.
I apologise for not being around much recently- I've been pupating/hiding/developing/running away, but I'm aware I've been missing out on lots of beautiful poetry recently, and hope to be able to at least skim through the backlog of what I've missed while I've been gone, and start replying to the kind, insightful, constructive, and inspirational messages I haven't got round to yet. I appreciate each opinion and point of view and am by no means ignoring you (well...not *intentionally* anyway)  :-)
Austin Heath Jul 2015
Entering the room, you'd notice
the faces are young hopefuls,
or old amateurs.
Each know a handful of material,
and are desperate to play
the entirety of it.

Eager to play jazz.

Frantic cacophony
in sweet harmony,
confidence and innocence
as common bedfellow.
What they lack in form,
meter, and style

they fill with a pain
hidden under confidence.
Innocence.
Arlo Disarray May 2015
Visiting the same bar every night as different ladies
Wearing wigs and makeup to make myself disguised
Changing up my voice and accent might seem crazy
But they're more experiments than they are lies

You see, I'm treated differently with every outfit
With every hairstyle, I get different attention
If I'm dolled up, I get free drinks, don't ever doubt it
But if I'm sloppy, men look the other direction

So I smile every time when I'm rejected
As the next night I am hit on left and right
Just depending who I am, am I respected?
Or am I bound to end up in a nasty fight?

Guess we'll see
who, tonight I'll be

(;
True ****.
Somewhere is a coward still in the closet ,
or laying next to you in the bed.
The  biggest cowards are disguised in uniform
Powerful cowards on pedal stools,hidden in congress.
Most cowards often promise to be lovers
but will run when you sing their name
cowards holding hands
rubbing their" happiness" in your face
cowards who were supposed to be parents
cowards who promised to be friends
careless cowards who wanted commitment
but never saw it through till the end
cowards buying flowers
cowards falling in love
there are cowards 6 feet under
yet some cowards make it above
I see a coward in the mirror
There is a coward in all of us
Josiah Wilson Feb 2014
Who am I?
Who should I be?
What makes me me, what do others see?

Who am I?
A broken man?
Shattered and weak, unable to stand?

Who am I?
Lost and alone?
Have I misplaced the light that You have shown?

Who am I?
Just a small, dreary soul?
Have I given up hope; have I lost all control?

— The End —