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Lunar Oct 2016
Alive, alive—I own several masks
to hide what is dead inside.
I keep it hidden
in the heart of the dark
where nothing but fake bravado lurks
and I am a prisoner confined
in my own ribcage.
Surviving on consuming myself from within
eating my guts to have 'more of it',
a massacre of glory and gore.
My blood glows and hardens
when i hear my name being screamed
and with their words
I stab myself repeatedly
and plant in myself the seed of remorse
until I bleed a garden of crimson blossoms
to which I proudly smile at.
I forgive and forgive others
but never bothered to erase my mistakes
with my soul penned in this writer's curse
continuing to write in permanent ink
pouring from the fragile glass cartridge of a heart.
I smother myself to sleep paradise
and wake up beautifully paralyzed
adorned with their disapproving stares
that look down on me.

An endless cycle of unraveling,
even when there is nothing left
to pull out and shred to pieces.
Unlike the trees in the seasons
unraveling themselves bare
when their leaves die and resurrect.
This tone of farewell sings
salutations to the perfect
as i see the skies above turn glassy as my eyes.
It's hard to keep an image
of yourself to please everyone
and even yourself.

I lost parts of my masks
when I let other people wear them
for them to see how it's like to live so cautiously.
Too many a crowd has used the masks
and they are slowly being shattered under pressure,
turning into a mirror,
a reflection of inside
—no, i must be careful with them all.

I almost freely gave one blue mask,
my heart and my entirety,
to someone who did not collect masks
but collects sadness.
Neither of us must not fall prey to the other
and I will do what it takes to chain
the kaleidoscope of beasts pulsating in me
to protect that person called my salvation.
I conclude:
I must not let anyone wear my masks anymore
to avoid hurting them
from the shards of the broken me.

I wear my masks quietly
a different one each day
that no one would notice me.

Only I hope they will never forget
I, who owns these masks—alive,
to hide what is dead inside.
i don't celebrate halloween but i guess gloominess and sadness are somewhat a big part of me. and a huge chunk of this is inspired by my favorite gore anime.

masuku is the japanese term for mask. it also sounds like massacre, which in this poem, is the massacre of the self.
Liam C Calhoun Oct 2016
That ******
Cicada.
She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!

Won’t let me sleep –
When I’ve worked my shift,
I’ve paid my rent,
I’ve fluffed my pillow.

Won’t let me sleep –
In between harassment,
In between the bill collectors,
The brawls and the *******.

Won’t let me sleep –
When people fail,
When bombs fall
And children perish elsewhere.

She won’t let me sleep.
She won’t let me sleep!
That ******
Cicada.

She won’t let me sleep.
The world we make.
Alice Shen Oct 2016
As I walked through a bitter wintry night,
ghosts whispered through my ears a tale of fright.
I felt my throat growing slightly tighter,
as I hear them speak of a mysterious writer.

A man of tremendous talent once walked this town,
and he would always wear a coat of hazel brown.
He wrote stories of wonder that brought children glee,
and people would always ask for more with plea.

Though when discrimination unleashed its wrath,
prejudice stood against his path.
As men and women mocked his believes,
all of his happiness were mourned in grieves.

As his resentments were freed from chains,
rebellious anger in his story it gains.
Vengeance of evil in his tales did fly,
a mad man he became as he cursed to the sky.

Unjust it was to him; evil crippled his mind,
he massacred the town as if he was blind.
And when his sins did wrap around his head,
his knees buckled and he was dead.

My lips were quivering upon hearing this tale.
Frozen as I was, my face grew pale.
Petrified I was as my heart jumped to my throat,
because I was the man in that hazel brown coat.
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