the saxophone player
wets his lips to perform
a masquerade of emotions
is the performance tonight
leave them by the door
you will not be needing them
anymore

We are in an elegant ballroom,
Surrounded with decadent silks and lace.
Everyone dancing,
Prancing,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

Our hair styled with jewels,
With our golden gilded chaises.
Everyone twirling,
Swirling,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

But with all their talking of peace,
And their stalking about with grace.
Everyone falling,
Stalling,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

We are all poor in life and in spirit,
But we put on a fake face.
Everyone lying,
Dying,
At this hypocritical masquerade.

the love he needed,
the gloss of success he craved,
it was nothing but a masquerade…

blinded by the laminated desires,
of the mockery camouflaged as love,
he fell for a complete charade.

foolish he was to believe the travesty,
that brought upon endless misery,
he craved the love all too glossy to be real.

mockery or parody, perhaps,
he was a *******,
fell in love with misery.

im dead
but im dancing.
in a masquerade meant for mortals
im prancing.

adjusting to the ebb and flow
of the uncertain next moment
that engulfs the ocean floor
i stay on my toes
im trying to stay afloat.

the ocean swirls and froths
concocting brain juices
and camouflaging bruises.
the bruises left by unwanted visitors;
a mountain lion on the bed,
**** i left the window open again.

this neon demon nestles in my mind
it comes in flashes at 2:13
when the street lights are flickering
and the old street dog is limping.
it jerks me awake and says "hey there, how you doing"
i say "im fine" and turn to my side
"wont you stay for a drink?" it whispers
"n-no thanks" i stutter
"you look like you could use one" its voice grows louder
i stare in silence and feel it coming closer
"here" i receive a handful of whisky and shards
and with my bleeding fingers and tear-stained cheeks,
i take a sip.
it smiles viciously, "i hope you like it. i made it just for you"
i smile back with a shard making its way out.

im wiping the blood off my chin
im wiping the tears off my cheeks
im hollow but im trying
not to cave in.
"it's great" i take the last gulp.
"goodnight my love" it sinks back into its abode
now with a torn throat and mangled face
i make myself comfortable;
"goodnight" i whisper back.

and suddenly it's 7 am.
the wounds are gone
again
the mountain lion played its trick once more
and im left here all alone
detached
where is my head
i drink up the ocean anyway;
i'd rather lose my mind
than find it in shambles.
i'd rather it run away
than keep it in shackles.

you see
my mind isn't home to me.
im in a mangled mess of
a confused gender identity,
a fluid sexuality,
depression and anxiety,
panic attacks and sobriety,
juxtaposition and similarity,
emptiness and mortality,

and the neon demon inside of me.

A snowflake's first waltz
twirling in the masquerade
its first and last dance