I wear the mask of too many roles,
Caretaker, rebel—lost in their tolls.
I give, I bend, but never break,
Hiding parts of me for others' sake.

I ask myself, "Is this enough?"
Is my best a gift, or a never-ending bluff?
I wonder if they see the cracks inside,
The parts of me I’ve tried to hide.

When things go wrong, I pull away,
Lost in regret, in a sea of dismay.
I cry, I doubt, I ask, “Why me?”
Stuck in the same cycle, never free.

I fear they’ll see me as a lie,
Fake, rude, disloyal—just a disguise.
But deep within, I know the truth,
I hide, I shrink, to avoid the proof.

I suppress the honesty, the raw, the real,
For fear they’ll judge what they can’t feel.
I keep my truth locked far away,
A prisoner of my own dismay.

Isolation brings a fleeting peace,
But it’s the silence that won’t cease.
With the few who truly see,
I try to feel what it means to be me.

But even in those moments, I fear,
That I’ll be left, unseen, unclear.
So I wonder, in the quiet of night,
Am I enough, or just a fight?

I don’t know what my purpose is yet,
But in this struggle, I’ve learned to forget.
I’m supposed to lead, but all I see,
Are the shattered pieces of who I could be.

I carry self-doubt and endless strain,
Validation from others, my constant chain.
But in the dark, I’m left to roam,
Wishing for a place to call home.

Create me to love,
But to never be accepted.
Bind my soul to sin.
Then for sin, deem me rejected.

Destine me to burn,
But to never burn clean.
Create me in divine image,
That's never to be seen.

Persuade me to trust,
To ensure I’d feel betrayed.
Gift me with a life,
To watch a life's decay.

Give me fragile emotion,
To observe my shattered core.
Hoard all sense of peace,
In a world at constant war.

Offer me no wings,
Then demand I ascend.
Force me to be strong,
Then force me to bend.

Decide my directions,
Then curse all the roads.
Promise me forgiveness,
That's neither felt nor shown.

Mold my faulted psyche,
To be damaged by confusion.
Make real my nightmares,
Make my dreams the delusion.

Shackle down my conscience,
Then tell me that I’m free.
Create me in divine image,
Drive me to hate what I see.

Once a poet with magical spells,
Floating words out from my hands.

Now I stood still holding blank papers,
Words now withholding to hover.

What’s a man without his worth?
Now I'm just a poet with no words.

Locked inside the walls,
Sitting in the hall,
Trying to recall,
Yet I slip and fall.

What is it that inspires you?
What is it that desires you?
Is it inside these walls,
Or is it the outside calls?

Did I do something wrong?
Or have I been wrong all along?
Is it me who doesn’t belong,
Or is it the world that belongs?

The struggle is hard,
The game isn't fun,
But the process is an art,
And the player is one.

The inner voices ask,
"Am I done?"
The player removes the mask,
Killing himself with a gun.