I know this seems like contradiction
But I wish I wasn’t just my fiction
I wish they’d closely read my pages
And see through my false scenes and stages

I wish they’d squint and try to see
The text that’s true, that’s real, that’s me
Instead they glance just once, so quick
Not reading pages stacking thick

I made this front, it’s me to blame
I hid my truth in fear of shame
I feel regret as people glance
Towards my false curated stance

The narrative that they all read
Is someone else, not true, not me,
My want for love drove me to burn
All that I was so love was earned

I crafted quickly my own fiction
Showed off my hollow, fake depiction
I forged and locked my gilded cage
The “pretty” hides the rotting page

If someone picked me up right now
And saw past all lies I allow
I don’t think they could even read
The mottled text as truly me

Words shifted from their origin
The lies, the stains that I poured in
Blur with the truth, no one can tell
Not friends, not loves, not my own self

I changed so much to fit their wants
That I can’t read my own **** fonts
I killed my truth, now none will see
The faded, burned, authentic me

They ask, “How are you?” I say, “Good,”
as if one syllable could
undo the unravel,
as if calm were a place I could travel
just by saying so.

As if good meant whole.
Not hollow. Not holding. Not holes
in a voice note from days ago,
when goodnight meant don’t go,
and goodbye meant I already have.

See, “good” hides in the corners:
in tired good mornings sent across borders
where time zones tangle like limbs once did—
I say good,
but I never meant for this.

Good grief is grief in a Sunday suit.
A tidy way to name the mess.
A eulogy wearing perfume.
A fire dressed up like a candle.

We stretch it over pain
like bedsheets that don’t quite reach the edge.
We say it for comfort. We say it instead
of I’m lonely, or I’m losing,
or I’m learning to lie to myself gently.

There’s good in goodbye,
but only when you don’t look back.
There’s good in goodnight,
but only if you’re sleeping side by side.
There’s good in being good,
but only if no one asks too much.

So no—
I’m not good. I’m practiced.
I’m polished.
I’m passable at pretending.
But ask me again,
and I’ll still say it.
Because it’s easier than explaining
what "good" could never mean.

I was once sad and lonely,
Having nobody to comfort me,
So I wore a mask that always smiled,
To hide my feelings behind a lie.

Before long, I had many friends;
With my mask, I was one of them.
But deep inside I still felt empty,
Like I was missing a part of me.

Nobody could hear my cries at night,
For I designed my mask to hide the lies.
Nobody could see the pain I was feeling,
For I designed my mask to be laughing.

Behind all the smiles were the tears,
And behind all the comfort were the fears.
Everything you think you see
Wasn't everything there was to me.

Day by day
I was slowly dying.
I couldn't go on,
There was something missing..

Until now I'm still searching
For the thing that'll stop my crying,
For someone who'll erase my fears,
For the person who'll wipe my tears.

But till then, I'll keep on smiling,
Hiding behind this mask I'm wearing.
Hoping one day I can smile,
Till then, I'll be here...waiting.

Any given Monday in our mechanical mind,
we may assume ego and I are one idea,

we must agree, your I and mine, merge
come together, make a point, go
oh
sh
sure ity…
fret not little person,
strange and new world
aware you and me,

at this point, where the thread through
realization practice loops
our finest lines,
tightens our most perfect seems, along

--------------
a Noh mask, emotion
means nothing if no is no for you

and yes remains, becomes main
idea, yes, mainly being good, thought
through which we pass, to live after, once

so,
close,
I slipped in the mud,
I did not die, I hit the dirt, just
in time, in time, in time, in time,

I and all I knew as ever true, fell, too,
through sansara certainty predictable,

as in time travel adjustment entertainment,

a core interesting movie hook, second chances.

Pattern recognosis, sage mask on, do no more.

I cover my tears
Masks made of too bright smiles
My eyes hold tears of sadness,
Though they see them as tears of joy
I drown my thoughts with lyrics
When they become to much to bear
I talk too freely,
laugh too loud,
Just to cover up the silence
The darkness clouds my brain,
My thoughts,
my feelings
I hide my pain with my humor,
But the jokes feel empty when I’m alone
The silence screams louder than I ever could
And I can’t say it out loud
I know they would laugh it off
Or tell me:
“That’s not you”

So much face but one only I see,
None of souls know...
I keep your name in my dairy.

A yellow blight from a sun,
A deep shallow of those eyes,
The rose color of your lips,
And the white pale of your skin.

The air are burning like a summer,
But you are colder as a winter.

You pull the air of my lung,
Suffocate me with those eyes.

Can we dance for once..
With a symphony from the dead Siren,
As the rain showering us
like a withered crop in a garden.

A shell stands in the wind
unsure of what it is

but first
a man walks up to it

pick and ****
pick and ****

"Why are you so hollow?"

pick and ****
pick and ****

"Do you not like me?"

pick and ****
pick and ****

but, a piece of the shell
broke.

Satisfied, the man left

The broken shell stands in the wind
still unsure of what it is

A woman in the distance
walks up to the broken shell

she jabs at the pices
"Why are you so lazy?"

jab and stomp
jab and stomp

"All you do is act lazy!"

jab and stomp
jab and stomp

the pressure
breaks another piece

and satisfied
the woman leaves

the shell
hollow and empty
crumbles to dust

it gets swept off a mountain
as a powder of crust

now the shell is no more

and all that remained
was a beacon of hope

that one day
the shell
won't be empty no more

the circus clowns were sad
their pain made the people laugh
so every day
they painted their faces
with outrageous colors
and wore ridiculous costumes
they got onto the stage
in front of all those people
they fueled their sadness
into humor
and tricks
the people laughed and laughed
when the circus clowns show was over
they put on normal clothes
and removed their face paint
they lay in bed at night
and cry themselves to sleep
in the morning
they have another show
so they use the face paint as a mask
to hide away their pain

Once upon a time, there were five children who weren’t really children.
They were neglected feelings wearing borrowed skin and convictions of no needs.

The first was a boy who felt nothing at all.
He walked through life like a ghost no one remembered dying.
They called him cold, but he was just tired
Of dripping in places no one would whipe.
Inside, he wanted someone to knock on the door he bolted shut.
But no one ever stayed long enough to try.


The second was a dog who was always smiling.
People passed by and said, “What a happy little thing.”
But they put a leash around its neck and called it loyalty.
It wagged its tail even when it hurt,
because someone once told it love is earned through obedience.
So he waited.
And waited.
And waited.
No one returns.


The third was a boy who swallowed his nightmares.
He thought if he ate them all,
they’d go away.
But they grew inside him like weeds—
and some nights, he screamed in his sleep,
his belly full of bells no one could hear.

The fourth was a hand—
just a hand.
It wanted everything.
It grabbed and gripped and begged to be filled.
But everything it touched turned into something else:
a kiss became a bruise,
a hug became a choke.
The hand never asked, only took.
And still, it was always hungry.


The fifth wore a mask.
A lovely one.
Shiny eyes, soft lips, laughter stitched just right.
She wore it so long,
she forgot who lived underneath.
When people loved her,
she wondered who they were loving.
So she smiled harder.
And disappeared a little more each day.

One by one,
they wandered into the Forest of Almost.

They didn’t mean to meet each other.
They were just looking for silence
that didn’t hurt.

They didn’t speak at first.
They only sat—close, but not touching.
Each one pretending not to notice
how the others looked like pieces of them.

The boy who felt nothing
was the only one who saw the dog’s leash.
The girl with the mask
was the only one who saw the nightmares blooming under the boy’s skin.
The greedy hand trembled when the smiling dog licked it gently,
as if even hunger deserved kindness.

And slowly,
they did what no one else had done for them:

They stayed.

Not to fix.
Not to save.
Just to be.

And maybe that was the magic.
Because in the Forest of Almost,
they didn’t become whole—
but they did become real.

And sometimes,
real is the bravest thing you can be.