The guy at the bus stop, seen every Saturday morning, carries the battered and broken guitar case. He doesn't know where he is going, he doesn't know what his life will be. He smiles and tips his hat at everyone walking by.
Little does everyone know the emptiness he feels inside. His hair, cut neat-His
outfit, perfectly put together. His smiles, so big and bright: they mask his true identity.
He gets on the bus as per usual, weekly traveling down to the local coffee shop with the rest of his family. The guitar half fits in the seat beside him, as he sits waiting for another day ahead of him.
He will go to the local shop, sit on that little brown stool in the corner, and pull out his one prised possession. Music isn't defined by society, music is interpreted by the beholder. And there he will play the day away, seeing the smiles on the faces of others. They walk in, grab a coffee, make small chit chat, and walk out taking on the day.
Occasionally, a few people will stop, complement the plucking of the strings. With this, he will reply excitedly, explaining the new piece he has been working on. Most will smile and nod, some talk a little longer, intrigued by the musicality.
Others go up to the store owner, his mother, and ask for his name, for they truly enjoy the music. Nobody ever asks him for his name, and he never knows why. Yet without a doubt, he always dreads the answer coming from behind the counter.
Her name is Scarlett, his mom replies.
He hides his face behind his pin straight black hair that flows down to his waist. He looks down at the red and white polka-dotted dress, sighs, and continues playing.
One Saturday afternoon, right before his family was to go home, an old lady came and asked his mom for the name of the beautiful guitar player in the corner.
He heard the usual response and stiffened. The old lady noticed this and walked over to the corner.
May I ask you, the old lady begins, What is your name
His eyes light up, then quickly faded. He cannot speak of himself in front his mother.
It's okay dear the lady whispers, I used to have a family like yours. They called me Mark, but my real name is Lacey. You will be yourself one day, I promise
His face lit up once again.
He finally found someone who understands.
My name is Sean, he replies, this time-with a true smile.

Only time will tell the confidence within,
the courage, the strength, behind the skin.
Near and far from the depths of the shadows
Breaking from underneath the grin.

Everything here are things that I chose,
Holding back, anything but the proper prose
Wearing down, and running thin,
Running away from those who appose.