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I never existed. You know, I never did.
It was all an elaborate illusion.
I have been told to play. No, I had no intention of robbing you of your emotions or perception. I just wanted to find myself.
I realised this so-called universe couldn’t provide me with meaning or perhaps it had none to offer, so I made up characters for every one of them I met, and yet I failed miserably to know myself. Fear of not understanding myself consumed me into nothingness.
 
“I'm tied to the rocking chair.
I don't need to be ******* cared for.
They said my dumb stars weren't aligned. Even those Scripted Zodiac stones won't get it right.”
 
Every time someone came along, I put up a new character, a charade to please their needs in the hope of finding myself, but I never did every single time I couldn't understand why
What lines did I miss or the script didn't work?
series of phobias bombarded my surroundings, making me speak gibberish.

My half-baked memories aren’t mine; different personas tangled within one, saying love isn't our thing, hate, jealousy, why do you need such things?
Emotions are a burden, a limitation on brains.
For centuries, nut-sized cytomegaloviruses have argued over fictitious beings.
I don't find sense in these trivial things.

©sarcasticbong
 
Either I can go to sleep or I accept myself as part of this illusion.
**** says you won't be able to hold on too long, we are just waiting for your senses to collapse.
Jay M Aug 2021
Disguised beneath layers ever so seamless
Sewn together with intricate pattern and stitch
Embroidered smiles and elaborate costumes
Well rehearsed, prepped and ready for performance
Play the cards, pluck the strings, sing the songs
Play the parts, put on the grandest of shows

The funniest thing is that not a one knows
The amount of rights and wrongs
The close proximity, yet vast distance
How hands ache, shake, and twitch
Some think it to be needless
But never could that be further from the truth

Each and every door within each and every floor
Of the corridors of my mapless mind
The maze that it is
Holds puzzles, pieces, and clues
To the one hidden just beneath the surface
Dreaming of once again seeing the light
After after such plight

Every mask
Every side
Delicate fabrics and fragile seams
Sewn with trembling hands
Guide an inexplicable force
Perhaps a strange task
Hidden among wildest dreams
Set for an unknown course

With each that falls away
Another takes their place
A mysterious entity
Behind the face
Beneath the handiwork of the seamstress
Sewing and patching every hole
Desperate for every layer to stay
Remain no matter the cost
All for what purpose?
What is it that they hide,
That they hold so near and dear?
Such is unknown,
Or perhaps forgotten
Lost in the course of time

- Jay M
April 30th, 2021
Pulchra Persona, Latin for "Beautiful Mask". I keep leaving things lying around and forgetting to add them here.
Yemaya Feb 2021
1.Wake up and drag yourself out of your comfort.
2. Put on your persona of the day, channel what you lack until it feels real.
3. Force yourself to speak, you wouldn't want to be left alone.
4. Crawl back into your comfort and waste away in your room.
5. Try to sleep, block out the thoughts, plead with the voices for a moment of silence.
6. Repeat.
Just get through it.
John McCafferty Jul 2020
This femme fatale
A girl that captures
She be bright and skin tight
Shiny white with youth implied
Conversing in quirky loops
As we jump through her hoops
Slowly showing error codes
Could it be the alcohol
Clap snap of bear traps
Broken from within
Signs of white lines that fracture
Reactions to vast echoes of her past
Trauma tinged before the dawn
Soft but informed
A hardened persona with claws
(@PoeticTetra - instagram/twitter)
Poetic T Jun 2020
In this place where we lived there were
no doors, every room had a mirror.
            A reflection of what was, is.

And each was unique to the observation
that was seen beyond the tinted
                                            frame of creation.

                  Some places were, could be,
not a complete reflection of what was
contorted and beyond the conciseness
                                           of tangibility.

For some places were either hairline fractured,
on purpose or by mistake, most of these had
                                                                ­ warnings.
            
                         "REALITY DERUTCARF RETNE TON OD,

All who entered these were doing so at there
                                         own health and life..

Some did it for the buzz,  some weren't lucky..
         The Mirror Collective,
that's a posh word for reflective reconstitutes.

Ladies and gents that fixed the flaws,
                         fragmented reflections that
could lead to either two version of reality..

An obituary of an abattoir,  
where the breaks even though hairline
were like papercuts on the flesh.
                   And where they stood is where
the pieces collected upon each other..

Some rooms were purposely fractured,
           for those who broke the rules
were kept in shard rooms..
     These were places where others of less
reputable reflections were kept.


                             Solitary confinement,
there was just a jagged piece of mirror left,
enough space for a paper plate to be left.
Once there sentence was completed  
           The mirror collective would be called
to reconstitute the whole mirror..

If they were of sound constitution, not mad...
          
Then they were reintegrated in to the society..
                                  What they didn't realise is
the lights of different frequencies
were purposely shone within there room.
            Nearly all were unseen to the eye,
but were used to program them,
sublimely to have a more compatible persona.  

Me I wants like those others, my reflection was
                  always polished. I would enter
a reflection and be the person who'd stepped
through a moment before.

We were a society mirrored on the refection
that everything was meant to be perfect.

         But what we didn't realise that
every refection is distorted no matter how
                              perfect we think it is.

And the perfection we looked upon,
             was cracked beyond our contemplation.
We were just slaves to the mirror of our own
                                                                ­              egos..



But what ever you do don't look at the refection
staring behind you,
                        you looked....

                                                     ­          I'm sorry.....
T Inkpoem May 2020
This is my poetry persona
I don't own her
She's law unto herself
Meysa May 2020
my mother's trust issues are leaking into my chest
and
my father's tendency to forfeit humans for his solidarity
sometimes
I feel my persona bending to accommodate them
both.
- identity is an oh-so fragile topic
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