Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Lucas LaBounty Oct 2011
We wear the mask that grins and lies to everyone we love about everything we care about. The mask comes off only to be replaced by another, one for every single aspect of our lives. The masks are how we want people to see us, what we want people to think of us; like a subtle hypnosis. Tricked and deceived, the world shuns us, and so shuns itself, for the world is a mask. We never see underneath the mask to look at the real situation, their real feelings until it is too late, until they are absolutely powerless to stop us. That’s when we start to care and reflect, but it doesn’t matter anymore because you did not make the best of the time you had with the ones wearing the masks. The masks that come off by choice are statistics; they are leaders of nations until it is time for them to lie once more and don their old masks, or to make a new one, the effect is very much the same. The masks hide our feelings, the masks are our thoughts. The masks are our lives; to take off the mask is to die.

The Trumpet-Vine Arbour

The throats of the little red trumpet-flowers are wide open,
And the clangour of brass beats against the hot sunlight.
They bray and blare at the burning sky.
Red! Red! Coarse notes of red,
Trumpeted at the blue sky.
In long streaks of sound, molten metal,
The vine declares itself.
Clang! -- from its red and yellow trumpets.
Clang! -- from its long, nasal trumpets,
Splitting the sunlight into ribbons, tattered and shot with noise.

I sit in the cool arbour, in a green-and-gold twilight.
It is very still, for I cannot hear the trumpets,
I only know that they are red and open,
And that the sun above the arbour shakes with heat.
My quill is newly mended,
And makes fine-drawn lines with its point.
Down the long, white paper it makes little lines,
Just lines -- up -- down -- criss-cross.
My heart is strained out at the pin-point of my quill;
It is thin and writhing like the marks of the pen.
My hand marches to a squeaky tune,
It marches down the paper to a squealing of fifes.
My pen and the trumpet-flowers,
And Washington's armies away over the smoke-tree to the Southwest.
'Yankee Doodle,' my Darling! It is you against the British,
Marching in your ragged shoes to batter down King George.
What have you got in your hat? Not a feather, I wager.
Just a hay-straw, for it is the harvest you are fighting for.
Hay in your hat, and the whites of their eyes for a target!
Like Bunker Hill, two years ago, when I watched all day from the house-top
Through Father's spy-glass.
The red city, and the blue, bright water,
And puffs of smoke which you made.
Twenty miles away,
Round by Cambridge, or over the Neck,
But the smoke was white -- white!
To-day the trumpet-flowers are red -- red --
And I cannot see you fighting,
But old Mr. Dimond has fled to Canada,
And Myra sings 'Yankee Doodle' at her milking.
The red throats of the trumpets bray and clang in the sunshine,
And the smoke-tree puffs dun blossoms into the blue air.


The City of Falling Leaves

Leaves fall,
Brown leaves,
Yellow leaves streaked with brown.
They fall,
Fall again.
The brown leaves,
And the streaked yellow leaves,
Loosen on their branches
And drift slowly downwards.
One, two, three,
One, two, five.
All Venice is a falling of Autumn leaves --
And yellow streaked with brown.

'That sonnet, Abate,
I am quite exhausted by it.
Your phrases turn about my heart
And stifle me to swooning.
Open the window, I beg.
Lord! What a strumming of fiddles and mandolins!
'Tis really a shame to stop indoors.
Call my maid, or I will make you lace me yourself.
Fie, how hot it is, not a breath of air!
See how straight the leaves are falling.
Marianna, I will have the yellow satin caught up with silver fringe,
It peeps out delightfully from under a mantle.
Am I well painted to-day, 'caro Abate mio'?
You will be proud of me at the 'Ridotto', hey?
Proud of being 'Cavalier Servente' to such a lady?'
'Can you doubt it, 'Bellissima Contessa'?
A pinch more rouge on the right cheek,
And Venus herself shines less . . .'
'You bore me, Abate,
I vow I must change you!
A letter, Achmet?
Run and look out of the window, Abate.
I will read my letter in peace.'
The little black slave with the yellow satin turban
Gazes at his mistress with strained eyes.
His yellow turban and black skin
Are gorgeous -- barbaric.
The yellow satin dress with its silver flashings
Lies on a chair
Beside a black mantle and a black mask.
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The lady reads her letter,
And the leaves drift slowly
Past the long windows.
'How silly you look, my dear Abate,
With that great brown leaf in your wig.
Pluck it off, I beg you,
Or I shall die of laughing.'

A yellow wall
Aflare in the sunlight,
Chequered with shadows,
Shadows of vine leaves,
Shadows of masks.
Masks coming, printing themselves for an instant,
Then passing on,
More masks always replacing them.
Masks with tricorns and rapiers sticking out behind
Pursuing masks with plumes and high heels,
The sunlight shining under their insteps.
One, two,
One, two, three,
There is a thronging of shadows on the hot wall,
Filigreed at the top with moving leaves.
Yellow sunlight and black shadows,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
Two masks stand together,
And the shadow of a leaf falls through them,
Marking the wall where they are not.
From hat-tip to shoulder-tip,
From elbow to sword-hilt,
The leaf falls.
The shadows mingle,
Blur together,
Slide along the wall and disappear.
Gold of mosaics and candles,
And night blackness lurking in the ceiling beams.
Saint Mark's glitters with flames and reflections.
A cloak brushes aside,
And the yellow of satin
Licks out over the coloured inlays of the pavement.
Under the gold crucifixes
There is a meeting of hands
Reaching from black mantles.
Sighing embraces, bold investigations,
Hide in confessionals,
Sheltered by the shuffling of feet.
Gorgeous -- barbaric
In its mail of jewels and gold,
Saint Mark's looks down at the swarm of black masks;
And outside in the palace gardens brown leaves fall,
And yellow streaked with brown.

Blue-black, the sky over Venice,
With a pricking of yellow stars.
There is no moon,
And the waves push darkly against the prow
Of the gondola,
Coming from Malamocco
And streaming toward Venice.
It is black under the gondola hood,
But the yellow of a satin dress
Glares out like the eye of a watching tiger.
Yellow compassed about with darkness,
Yellow and black,
Gorgeous -- barbaric.
The boatman sings,
It is Tasso that he sings;
The lovers seek each other beneath their mantles,
And the gondola drifts over the lagoon, aslant to the coming dawn.
But at Malamocco in front,
In Venice behind,
Fall the leaves,
And yellow streaked with brown.
They fall,
David Chin Mar 2012
We live in an endless masquerade
Dancing to the same song in the
Same clothes but we change one thing.
We change our masks after every song
And we hide our true identity from the

Other guests at this masquerade.
We hide ourselves from our friends
And we hide ourselves from our family.
We hide ourselves from the most important
People at the masquerade: ourselves.

Every time we put a different mask on
We become someone we’re really not
Because we want to be that person or
Because everyone will like us if we’re
That person and not our true selves.

We change masks to hide the scars
Of our past and the pain we feel now
Sometimes people will like us if we
Only show the good and not the bad
Because the bad hurts not only us but them.

We were bullied when we were young
By our “friends” in school or at the park.
They called us names like “***” or “******”
Or push us down the stairs or into lockers
Or they call us fat because we are not skinny.

They call us names because they think they
Know us but they really don’t because we
Wear masks at this masquerade even when
We are bullied to hide our true emotions.
We wear masks because of these scars.

We change our masks because we don’t want
Everyone to know what we do or how we act
When we’re home with our family or friends.
In the masquerade we are friendly and nice but
At home we abuse our spouses or kids or friends.

We abuse them verbally or physically
Because we are drunk or we lost our jobs.
We scream at the top of our lungs because
That’s the only way we know how to relax.
That’s us when we’re not at the masquerade.

We lost our best friend from high school
Because he or she decided to commit suicide.
That was in the past but it felt like this morning so
We change masks to hide the pain we are feeling
With every passing second because we miss him or her.

Our world is an endless masquerade without an end
As we dance the dance of hiding our true identity from
Everyone we see with every change of the masks but
Our song is still the same. It’s the song of heartbreak
Because in this masquerade all we feel is pain and sadness.

We lose our true selves with each mask unless we,
With the help of someone, remove our masks and
Put an end to this never ending masquerade so we
Can live our lives the way we want to…as ourselves.
Until then, we dance the dance and change the mask.

Welcome to the Masquerade.
ryn Aug 2014
There are many different masks that adorn my wall
Always at the ready for such time they would be needed
Each one of them summoned to answer a specific call
Each one of them used so that the truth can't be uncovered

With time and wear these masks grow all the more necessary
They protect me from situations that render me vulnerable
Kept contained all the emotions that I wish to bury
Kept in check all of my thoughts so I stay capable

I've had these masks for as long as I can remember
Afraid if they have begun to redefine the true me
They assume their roles seamlessly as if it's second nature
Their roles they would assume without fail, ever so diligently

But as much as they would protect from my own naivety
They also would protect others from the words that I wield
These poison-laden words fueled by my poor misguided sanity
Could easily stab and wound if not for the masks that shield

Often wondered these masks if I've ever taken them off
And function as is without hiding behind bolted doors
Would I be able to walk the line without temptation to scoff
Will I be compassionate yet honest; without causing new-found sores

Such a tough questions to which the answers I know not
Despite having pondered till my head grew sore and weary
Something I should have done before delving in deep thought
Is to now remove the mask that my face does carry
LjMark Dec 2015
Someone asked me the other day
Could I ever date a Transgender girl
I think they expected a No, or Maybe
But a different answer popped out of my mouth
A special friend came to mind
A secret love I have
but mine alone, as she speaks only French
She is transgender, and date her I would
I dream of her nightly
dreams I can't put into words
We trans people speak of masks
Of who we tried to be before
Lying, acting, pretending to be male
With the woman we have always been
Hidden behind masks, confined to a closet

But I know for some it is also a mask
The attempts to look female and pass
To hide the body we hate
To be more the woman that we imagine us to be
But isn't that also a mask
The clothes and makeup, lipstick and wigs
Trying to make our bodies
Match who we are in our minds

This secret love I have, the intimate dreams
I want to take off all the masks
The wigs the makeup the clothes and shoes
I want to be with the person beneath all of the masks
That's who I dream of holding, that's who I long to love

by Lj Mark
These thoughts and feelings were inspired by a friends photo I saw this morning. It is part fiction, part truth, but is all from my feelings.
Deb Jones Oct 2019
I wear many masks
Interchangeable facades

I have one for everyone in my life
Slipping one off while readying
the next one I will be donning

For everyone standing in line
There’s a mask for each one of you

The friendship mask
The lover mask
The mother mask
The sister mask
The daughter mask
The matriarch mask
The physician mask
The patient mask
The money giving mask
The favored aunt mask
The “I’m listening” mask
The “Is that ALL for me?”mask
So many more

We all wear masks.
My challenge is keeping them in place.
And keeping them orderly

I don’t wear masks
to be deceitful
I wear them to be approachable
Even at my own expense

Are masks just more facets of who we are?
Preeti Verma Oct 2019
I have masks for every feeling

They often save me from reeling


I must have done some wrong

Don’t know for how long i could be strong

I thought I cherished all I had

But I realise now that it was my bad

I was holding maybe too tight

Strangling, what I cared, with no respite

I have learned to pull back now

Hiding, what I used to share, anyhow

Now, I have masks for every feeling

They often save me fron reeling


I am lying here, crying under the moonlight

The lost moments find it easy to alight

I wish the sleep would come

the endless thoughts make me numb

What if I had done it differently

I might not have run into regret incidentally

I am counting the mistakes I made somehow

Maybe I am not guilty but they hurt anyhow

So, I have masks for every feeling

They often save me from reeling


I am not hiding under the plain sight

Still sometimes, I make the mistake, in spite

It’s a mistake to show your all

Nobody gives a **** in long haul

So I have started using these masks

Which makes hiding a less daunting task

I am now unlike the old me

Who used to let her feelings run free

That’s why, I have masks for every feeling

They often save me from reeling


I am lying here, hiding under the moonlight

Burying the moments that wish to alight

Sometimes the old me, still runs wild

Crumbling the walls I so carefully compiled

I often let her do as she wishes

then see her tumble down into pieces

I have seen her hope crush a million times

falling down after a hopeful climb

It’s the reason, I have masks for every feeling

They often save me from reeling

3 a.m. thoughts (old collection)
Skadi Snow Apr 2014
Dear my Soulmate,
Do you remember who you are?
Do you remember your own face?
Me neither..

We share a soul
But not a face
And honestly
I don’t trust mirrors..

So let's build so many masks
Until you recognize
One as your own countenance.

Because then, darling
We can switch our masks
And share entirely our lifes.
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.
Ashton Rae Apr 2014
We all live our lives
Hidden behind the masks we switch out based on who we're around:
Fake smiles for friends and family;
Painful, quiet thoughtfulness for coworkers, employers, and educators;
Horrible secrets we keep from everyone we meet;
From everyone we love

And sometimes, these masks are gorgeous,
Like those you'd see at a masquerade.
Masks that mimic what's really there,
Yet hide it from sight as well.
And everyone who wears these masks
Will look and a mirror and think to themselves:
"Who am I? Why don't I recognize this person reflected back at me?"
It's the mask.

We wear the mask.
We hide behind it.
But when did the mask become us?
When did it become everything we are?
When did these masks start taking control?
Will we let this continue?

When does it stop?
Mr X Aug 2014
Millions of masks on this earth,
Each so vivid and so beautiful.
Behind each resides a silent soul
With the deepest stories untold.

The masks get carried away with time,
But the souls remain,
forever the same.

They search for other masks and with it other stories.
And the stories get buried forever,
Leaving behind the greatest of its glories.
Cassis Myrtille Aug 2013
The little gold
Shines beautifully
Under the yellow light
Shimmering faces
With a cheeky smile

Come four years
A little older
A  little dirtier
But that same cheeky smile
The same little gold

Come another 8 years
The same little gold
Layers and layers
of dark, black
dirt piling up
No more cheeky smiles
Only masks, masks and more masks

Come another 16 years
The same little gold
More and more
More and more
More and more
Layers piling up
The little gold
No more to be seen
Black, coarsened gold
Masks, masks and
more masks
A heart of gold
But not
a mind of gold

Come another 32 years
The little black gold
ceases to exist.
Under the thousands
and thousands
and thousands
of other layers
But a new layer of gold
Twas not the gold
formed first
Formed last
Old is gold.
Lora Lee Apr 2016
Poetry is a mask in reverse
created from just a mere spark
bringing to light
who we really are
out of the depths of the dark
       Despite ourselves      
we try to hide
in the realms of our daily lives
and then poetry's
visceral therapy
weaves magic spells
from our fingers
     right out
                 of our minds
Suddenly, there is no choice
but to allow those masks
to be dropped
like a sudden change of fancy
at a medieval ball:
Naked eyes for coverings
are swapped
Yes…the command is given
ornate masks slip
with a splat upon
the floor
Suddenly, all dancers look
upon each other's faces
discovering treasures
they knew not before
Pregnant silence reigns
and only then
does the true dance begin
in bransles' or corantos' countered moves,
a new quiet
drowns out the din
Let it commence!
in festive air,
all attempts to hide
are in vain
Subtextual glances
and heady music
create sensual tension
      The wine is flowing
smiles glowing
and soon release will
bear fruit
as the dance is danced
without inhibition
and all pretenses
start to uproot
And so it is
in poetry…
All those masks
are thrown down
the words just
                              from beyond our lips
making magic
from adjectives and nouns
Now, our words drip upon the paper
revealing the secrets divine
our souls are coaxed out from the layers
melting your
sparkling poets' hearts
into mine
BTW a bransle and coranto are examples of traditional medieval line dances
Hailee Harris Oct 2018
every morning we look into the mirror and everyone sees something different. someone sees big bright smile and someone sees dark circle under the eyes. someone is shining with happiness and someone is just empty shell without emotions. someone goes to work/school with that bright smile from the morning, but someone has to think which mask he/she will wear today. most people see us that we are happy with our lives, but those are only masks. masks that hide us from the world. and why do we wear masks? I wear them to protect myself, to hide my weak self. someone once told me, that I changed. but it's not true I just changed my mask. we wear masks to make other people proud. then we make one mistake and they judge us. they tell us to be ourselves... but when we are, they don't like it. so question is:
Do you really want me to stop hide behind my masks when I'm broken? Do you want to see me break down because of my past? Do you really want to see this side of me? I don't think so.
I'm not really sure if this is a poem or poetry but oh well, I did my best. :))
Kirk Thomas Jul 2010
We all wear masks in some shape or form
Some of us have different masks
For different occasions
I am not sure if I know who you are
Your mask hides a reality
I may never know
Is it protection?
Is it fear?
It must be self preservation
If I do not use my mask
I am vulnerable
Exposed for the world to see
Some say they don't wear masks
How would we truly know?
For the most part
There are very few people we deal with
twenty-four seven
Even then do we truly know?
Our masks may be off while we sleep
But then sleep could be a mask!
So much hidden, kept safe
From being judged and shunned
What mask are you wearing right now?
© Copyrighted Kirk Thomas 2009/10/05
Michael Mallen Jun 2018
To please society
is a difficult task
you have to mold and wear a mask
that hides your face
and censors your soul
the masks we wear
let us fit in
because being yourself
is forbidden
were not supposed
to think for ourselves
were led instead with whistles and bells
do this, do that, move here read that
they treat us as if
we were as blind as a bat
as if we can't think
without wearing their hat
they don't want us to think
they don't want us to feel
they want us to sink
they don't want us to heal
they want to hide us
from the truth of reality
and give us a false,
sense of morality
they hand us clay
to craft our mask
and they say
do this task
do it fast
put on your mask
or you'll be last
and put on blast.
It's awful how we are deceived
we're told that our worth
comes from how were perceived
they ignore our needs
not the basic like food and water
but instead how to be a good father
or be a real friend
so many relationships
come to and end
because the weight of our masks
is far too much
it makes another person's heart
too difficult to touch
the masks we wear
aren't good at all
they beat and tear and want us to fall
fall far away from our true selvs
and all of our emotions
end up bottled on shelves.
It's time to wake up
take off the mask
break through the ice
stop doing your task
look at the sky
look at the stars
don't spend your time
drinking at bars
why not think about
how to reach mars,
or how to build a slide for cars
you've gotta snap out of it
open your eyes
you'll be proud of it
and you'll start to despise
all of the masks that craft our lies
at the end of this journey
there is a suprise
it's the ability to live
without shades on your eyes
you loose all of the weight that the masks carried
and all of your pain will finally be buried.
Someone Apr 2014
Masks aren't just for hiding the bad.
Sometimes they hide the good too.
So which are you hiding?
Or is the mask hiding something from you?
Sometimes we are hidden from our true selves by ourselves.
Self-esteem will not allow her to be her
Qui suis-je?
Je ne sais pas
She don mask
Constantly donning masks
It’s the reverse
The hardships and trials she endured in life
Her self-esteem took the blow
“You aint ****”
They constantly yell at her.
Until she started believing it.
I believed it.
Self-worth shot to ****.
Why should she get anything.
She doesn't deserve it
She's nobody.
She's invisible.
Living a fake life
Nobody is aware
Masks are starting to suffocate her
They stay stuck to her face
Lovers (mostly lovers)
No friendships
No relationships
It’s all on the surface
They can’t see what’s beneath her masks
Its ugly
Its cold
Its blank
It exists
Its invisible
In the mirror she doesn’t see it
Its unworthy
Unworthy to be seen
Unworthy to be appreciated
They look through it
Past it to the other side
What is this thing called pride?
Pride is just fear
Fear of being seen
Fear of being known
The illusions
The delusions
The lies
They are real.
They’re what her life’s become
What’s the point of living a fake life anymore?
Constantly donning masks
Stepping into a non-existent person’s shoes
Pretense pretense pretense
Hurt by hidden clues
This is not a movie
This is real life.
But it isn’t real.
Mel Holmes Feb 2014
seductive decay

on summer days we
rode down the river in our ripe age,
careless if the rapids swept us
into their deadly dustpans,
the black hole of water,
the possibility aroused us,
perhaps because it seemed so far away.

and next to the river,
the appalachian townsfolk wandered the deep grass, they
gathered here to see the circling folding-tables,
buy the spread of goods,
the goods are masks.
the masks are of old folks’ faces,
cartoon-like, goofy comic characters in the funny pages.
masks of rubbered wrinkles, permanent,
bulging eyes, whiskered ears that never stop growing, with
an elastic band, you can become an elder.

old age attracts the crowds,
i have a fascination with it myself,
picturing all the stories that have
taken elders to the present,
it’s hard to fake being wise
when you’re forced to think for years.
Frankie Gestone Mar 2013
He woke up in a rapid sweat, darkness surrounding him, his soaked pillow was pressing up on his neck as he could feel the uncomfortable stabbing cold run right threw his whole body. His mouth was dry and his body was in great pain. He lay there practically naked, but not just physically, also emotionally. It was like a catatonic state where the person’s body is paused in reality, but the actual person is far away and isolated even from himself. He wondered why he was so comfortable being uncomfortable and remaining frozen in time.  He saw nothing but the subtle moonlight that peaked through the blinds of his window. A point of existence, he feels nothing because all he has ever felt has drowned him. His numbness was being accepted and he embraced that if he remained this way, he would never have to feel hurt or heartbreak again. It’s better this way, he confirmed.

Eventually he got up out of his bed, walked outside to a nearby empty field. He looked up at the infinite night sky and contemplated the moon, the stars, and the endless space that sustained all of its existence. A tear fell down his cheek as he remembered the beautiful wonder of life and the universe; his realization that he is just a small spec of dust compared to all that is and all that is wonderful. Whatever happened to that universal happiness he used to feel? The feelings of the unseen, the cosmos, the mysteries that remain unsolved were all love. He then felt ancient and brand new at the same time-always being around all that is, but recently born into the unknown. The silence of the night swarmed him, and he suddenly embraced all the things he could not accept. The lullaby of the wind put him to sleep.

When he awoke, it was twilight. The sky was a lighter, deep blue and the sun in the far distance was rising in a fiery halo of mixed red, orange, and yellow colors, and the early morning clouds were clear and transparent. He heard the sound of a train horn in the far distance. He followed the sound with his ears as the sound became slightly louder and louder. Then, suddenly he could see the light of the early morning train.

The train had stopped as he approached it, and he hopped on with no hesitation or looking back. This runaway train was going to take him to where he needs to be, and he blindly and faithfully accepted that his fate was out of his hands now. No more heartbreak, no more reminders of the past, and most importantly no more drowning in his tears. As the train proceeded to move forward, he could feel fresh air gently touch his face, and all that he saw and ever knew were now flashing lights disappearing into eternity.

It was hours into the late morning when the train made its first stop. He listened to the train conductor speak out over the intercom, almost incoherently, say, “This is Brightstone Park. Next stop will be Riverhead.” A nostalgic feeling suddenly came over him as he could remember that his very first kiss was in Brightstone Park with Jessica Garzi. That was not his first true love, but his very first heartbreak. Riverhead was a forbidden memory, as he knew a classmate who had committed suicide off the Riverhead Bridge. He had not returned there in five years because of his haunting memories that would always come back to remind him just how cold and frightening the world really is.

While lost in thought, he felt a rough, sand paper-like wet feeling on his forearm. He looked down and it was a black cat, but not all black. The paws were all white like socks, and the chest and stomach were snow white. The loud prominent purr was a very peculiar reminder of a cat he once owned. Her name was Midnight. She was not the friendliest cat to strangers, but she loved him, especially when he massaged her paws. This cat was practically identical to Midnight. Midnight was put down three years ago though. As he began petting the cat’s back, it ran away and jumped off the moving train. He looked out in a hurry, but it was gone. It was just like everything else he loved. There for one moment, then gone the next. The strange thought that has one wondering if anything had actually existed that is now no more. A person, or a thing, could mean everything to you, but once they slip away, they become like the wind: occasionally brushing up against you, but never revealing its form.

On the train he began to wonder how he got where he was, and in general how the smallest decisions he made lead to bigger events and all in all, everything was all connected. There are no isolated events, or isolated people- it is all proven fact and science. Everything depends on each other to survive. The trees depend on the sun to keep themselves alive; we give off carbon dioxide to the trees and in return, we receive the oxygen we need from the leaves of the trees. He thought about the potential of a seed-for example, a tomato seed. Within that tiny seed is unlimited potential of life: The seed may produce one plant of several tomatoes, and within all those tomatoes are countless other seeds. This is all from one seed. Then, one may take a couple of seeds from a picked tomato and plant them throughout the yard creating a garden. That original seed came from another tomato seed inside a tomato on a plant, and that seed came from another seed. When did this cycle of reproduction begin and when does it end? Is it just another form of the infinite? When a person eats a tomato from that original seed, he receives certain essential vitamins his body needs for surviving and sustaining good health. This good health will effect his offspring and so on and so on. When he defecates, that will all return to the earth for potential fertilizer used for other tomato seeds. This is the same when he returns to the earth again. His dust will fertilize the same world that he came from, for all things come from it just to inevitably return to it.

He continued to think about how matter is never created nor destroyed and the same for energy. Nothing ever truly dies; the form changes into something new, like how water becomes a cloud and the cloud becomes water. Though this comforted him, he noticed that a few feet away from him was a former coworker and friend, Natasha Karev. She always infatuated him and they became close friends, but he always wished it had continued and gone even further than it did. One night, only a couple of years ago, they were at a friend’s party. Both were drinking, but not so heavily. That night they bonded and got so close, that she admitted she loved him. He was never quite sure how real that “I love you” was, but it was burned inside his heart ever since. That night there were moments she would tell him how much she wanted to make love to another guy at the party, Kevin, but was afraid to approach him. She told him she desperately wanted to lose her virginity that night to somebody because she was eighteen and only getting older. This was like a sharp knife slowly penetrating into his heart. He remained speechless for quite a few minutes. Finally he decided to go up in a bedroom alone. To his surprise, she followed him up and kissed him. He felt her clothed body up and down, and she touched areas not many have touched before. She told him she wanted to have *** and that she wanted him to rob her of her virginity. He was speechless, but extremely excited. Then, abruptly, she told him she could not because everything was happening way too soon. Why couldn’t she just make up her mind? He sat frustrated in the darkness, again, all alone. After that night, they spoke and remained close, yet that night was never mentioned again. It was as if it had never happened. After about two years of an on and off friendship, they just went their own ways. There were no fights or disagreements. Life just separated them.

“You’re just a figment inside somebody’s dream. So far from reality, you are a dream within a dream within a dream.” Startled by this soft voice, he quickly turned around to see Natasha smiling at him. “Ha-ha! I knew I could scare you. Were you abused as a kid, or something?” No words could come out at that moment, but he hugged her tightly. She explained to him that she is getting off at the next stop to meet a friend. He was sure he wanted to follow her and see where life would take him. She reminisced and told him how she had been away inside her own cave for several months, but is now very happy to meet up with everyone she had lost contact with.

The next stop arrived, but he did not catch the name of the stop he was getting off. As he got off with several others, both he and Natasha met up with her friend, Valeria, who he found quite cute. She resembled Natasha a bit in that they both had ***** blonde hair and blue eyes. They walked right into a giant street fair with a crowd of people looking at the foods and desserts, the trendy clothes, cheap jewelry, and children play rides.

As he looked around, he began seeing many familiar faces. He saw Kevin, a childhood and grammar school mate there with another co-worker of his, Jenny. Jenny was a Colombian beauty in his eyes and who was a flirt and tease to him, but never actually gave him any time alone. Incidentally, he knew both of them at different times in his life and had no idea they knew of each other. Kevin stopped contacting him during high school without any arguments or disloyalties that would tear a friendship apart. Keeping his head down, he walked a few feet to discover another childhood best friend, Jack, who was with a mutual childhood friend, Melanie. Melanie was a best friend of his and also a first childhood crush who also had a crush on him. He thought it was odd because even though Melanie and Jack were also best friends, Melanie never liked Jack in a special boy/girl way. He felt a moment of heartbreak, but quickly turned away and kept walking. A little further up the road, he saw two more childhood friends, Chris and Jimmy, who as children did not get along that well and only hung out with each other in the company of him. How peculiar it was suddenly seeing them together after ten years, and as seemingly best of friends.

That was not all. Things were getting stranger and stranger. It was like all the people who had made an imprint on his life were now coming together around him. He saw his two therapists, one he had gone to as a teenager and the other as a young adult, stand next to each other selling prescription drug samples. Both stared at him with a blank face, but with a prominent smile. He could barely nod at them. Natasha directed them to a local bar. Inside the bar was huge and also had a second floor. He noticed the music playing in the background was, Nocturne In E Flat Major, Op.9 No.2, by Polish born Romantic composer, Frederic Chopin. He became fixated on the elegant eighth note, left hand arpeggios, and the sweet and peaceful fast moving seven, eleven, twenty, and twenty-two notes from the right hand. If he thought about the most beautiful song ever written and all that is wonderful in one, this was the song.

They all took a seat and began looking at people and laughing at their behavior. Everyone was wearing masks. Social masks. They observed how different people act when they are in social gatherings, and how if you carefully study their body language, it will become clear that what they are saying and trying to put out is not what is actually being expressed through the body. One young man was frantically shaking his right leg as he tried to flirt confidently with a young woman he had just recently met. His face began to turn noticeably red, in an embarrassed flush, and he was making sudden hand gestures and quick eye blinking. She, on the other hand, pretended to be interested in what he was saying; yet her eyes would often look around the room and her body was a good distance from him with her arms folded.

Then as they were all laughing, he abruptly stopped and looked ahead to see two drunken women making out two tables away from them. As his eyes focused in on them, he realized they were two of his former crushes, Claire and Veronica, who he had no idea knew of each other because in fact, they were from different time periods of his life. He began seeing former teachers and professors from each stage of his school career, laughing hysterically with one another. Some of his most inspiring teachers and professors were gathered with other teachers and professors he despised. A young, tattooed hipster woman entered the scenery with a little Cairn Terrier that had an uncanny resemblance to his recently passed dog, Petey, who was put to sleep when he was away on a vacation, unexpectedly. His sorrow began to overwhelm him for not being able to say good-bye and see him for a proper last time. Everything about the dog’s high energy, playfulness, and watchdog attitude was exactly like Petey. A tear ran and fell off his cheek from his left eye right into the hand of Natasha. He looked up at her and she said, “Your tears are my tears. For what pain you withhold, I take and share with you.” She then wiped her right eye with the hand that held his tear. Natasha’s friend began to speak slowly into his left ear in Russian. Though he could not understand a word she was saying, it sounded just like a poem based on the pattern and rhythm’s consistency. It made him feel free of melancholy, but then thought of Angela Antonaci entered his mind.

He thought that the last painful experience ended with the break up of his closest best friend ever to play a part in his life. She was his girlfriend for the last three and a half years. They had known each other for ten years before they broke up their entire relationship. She was thirteen and he was fifteen when they first met in a park. She was always all over him like a little schoolgirl and he would often get frustrated with her obsession over him, for he believed he was no big deal. She was the first person to ever make him feel special and important, and even though he would resent her likeness towards him, he could never keep his eyes off of her or stop himself from always coming to her when he felt lonely. After about seven years, he realized he was in love with her. He had always been in love with her from the first time they met eyes. His long road had always lead back to her home in life. Every time he tried forgetting her and moving on, they would meet again. That person people search their entire lives for, he had found.

He rose out of his seat and briefly said goodbye to Natasha and her friend and went upstairs. He wanted time to be alone and walk around until he suddenly saw Jessica walking towards him. He stopped and waited for her to say hello, but she walked right by him, as if he had never existed. He felt a little insulted, yet relieved as any awkwardness that would arise was avoided. Looking ahead, he saw Angela’s two best friends, Kate and Julie, with her high school crush, John. John was playing an acoustic guitar on a lounge chair, singing to the two friends, almost enticing them with his eyes and voice. His jealousy overcame him, as Angela had been infatuated with him on and off even though he had played with her feelings throughout high school and college. John would tell her he loved her and make her believe he was a romantic, then when she fell into his words, he would leave her and keep a distance for long periods of time, leaving her in despair.

The conclusion occurred to him that maybe she was nearby. He searched throughout the entire bar not finding any other clues that she was around. When he went downstairs, he saw Natasha and her friend asleep, as well as most of the bar, except for the bartender. It was like everyone just passed out from the alcohol or possibly inhaled some type of knockout drug. The bartender was watching the news forecast of a tornado watch and dangerous thunderstorms. The bartender looked at him and said, “It’s better if you stay in here. It’s dangerous out there. I recommend you don’t go out!” He just listened, but decided to leave to the outside anyway.

He walked three blocks through the heavy rain and strong winds. He took a moment to stop and look at the black and gray clouds above him. As he looked across the street, he saw her. She was with her mother, sister, and mutual friends of theirs, Chrystal and Mike. He also saw behind them, his own mother and sister. He ran across the street to her and she shockingly with excitement screamed, “Hey!!! Oh my God!! Please stay with us. I missed you so much. You have no idea. We have to get to a shelter away from this storm. Hold my hand…” Smiling, he kept walking with them. They walked for twenty minutes and entered a giant field. After ten minutes of walking restlessly through the field, they all stopped to catch their breath. Angela’s mom ordered everyone to hold one another’s hand. An enormous gust of wind pushed them all to the grassy ground. He began to shake violently as he felt the touch of death nearby. He wondered if this would be the end, as he felt unaccomplished and left with so much left unsaid to her. Thoughts raced through his mind like a speeding highway about how to get to safety. Unable to control and remain focused on one rational thought at a time, he blacked out for a minute.

Then there he was right in the middle of a storm. In so many ways, he realized where he was ending was where he originally began. All the imprints from all he ever knew came back all at once to watch him finally leave all he ever knew from this life. And in the last moments, he found himself with her. He held her hand, while she held his, and the hands of their family and friends. The world was so dark and cold. The wind became much more rapid and an enormous bright light from it came within just miles of them. He kept looking up at the dark black and gray clouds over them, never as frightened as he was now. His focus was on the great strength of the wind. Whatever melancholic thoughts he had of his life, he would not give up hope. Maybe he was just hopelessly hopeful, but holding each other tightly might, in some miraculous way, save them. Then suddenly a deep peace began to sustain his very being. He remembered whose hand he was holding- the only woman to ever understand every level of his being. He looked down at her big, precious eyes pouring out tears. Their eyes locked, as she had been watching him the entire time. No words needed to be said from one another. They knew exactly what they felt and meant. For the first time in his life, everything was all okay. All was beautiful. The whole situation was beautiful, not tragic. In that moment, he understood this was where he was meant to be. This was where he wanted to be, for only in such a life altering moment does one comprehend the very nature of love and life. To just glance into her eyes and see the same person staring back in suspense, while all he ever knew was being born, growing, and dying simultaneously in complete acceptance. They began to fade and disappeared into the light.
Flyaway Spark Jul 2013
We play this game,
The game of life.
Where people hide
Behind their masks.

You tore my first layer away.
You found out my name.
I tried to hide myself away
But still I'm found again.

We wear our masks
To hide our past
And maybe hide our lust.
And we hide those demons
Deep inside of us.

The masks
Full of complexity
They help cover
Our identity.

But they don't ever last
They get
Burned out fast
Or simply melt
When the chill subsides.

And everything beneath
Those layers and layers
Of masks you wear
Has to face the world again.
Eriko Mar 2016
serenity encompassing the shy masks
masked marble stone with the sliver of gold
two slits and a mouth to taste
those withering syllables left decadently on shore

masks, masks drinking roaming with haste
jumbles of words unspoken and texts never sent
interiors slashed as desire gathered and clashed

how long can our masks endure to the last?

last sip of golden beams
quench the sunlight with aching feet
last time stepping out the auditorium door
I swear, you were a great actor amidst the despair
last time you'll lay your eyes into another
getting lost trying to comprehend the dots
the last stroke of fear eradicated the moment
the fastens are unclasped,

                                                                ­   clarity
                                                         ­                     weightless
as the mask becomes of no more
something like vertigo,
sudden visions of peripheral miracles
and yearn to feel your own cheekbones
we all have our own masks
sometimes for different things
Paige Apr 2014
I used to be ignorant
Despising culture and language.
But now I see hurt
Over thousands of miles away they cry and dream.
Like me.
They grew up faster than me.
Became more cautious of death.
For its mask is not as hard as its bite.
Whispers of muerte slither through the gusty winds at day and night.
Women and man disappear into this muerte mist.
It slips into their dreams as they sleep on trains.
Jolts them awake at times,
Falling to another ground of death.
For this muerte hangs on like a burden,
Waiting for the bandits to arrive,
To follow their shadows
Then leave the ***** work to them.

            Fresh Prey

This is only the beginning of these actions.
Running doesn't escape their fate.
Insomnia pumps their veins.
Exhaustion wears heavier than the thick skin.
Muerte masks cover the faces.

It laughs and taunts at their survival.
They can't see these masks or stop them.
It's a struggle in itself to keep that omen away.
They know them too well.
Smell too many scents of fear.
Hate to see these people strive for a new life that they were meant to live.
There is more power over the border of America than what we hear.
The innocent voices of the dead sing to everyone of all colour, but our ears won't wake up.
We are more dead than they are.
Los inmigrantes necesitan ayudar con su nueva vida.
Tenemos esperanza!
That's just a phrase that gets thrown now like a piece of paper tossed in the wind.
Like knowing the sun rises and sets.
No one here cares about the struggle or hears the sound of the muerte masks.
Working families are the ones dying,
and these muerte masks are thriving.
Are you a muerte mask, just thinking ignorant thoughts on culture, ethnicity, immigration and what is being portrayed on the media?
Andrew T Hannah Jun 2013
A Surreal Epic of Existence

Prelude to the Journey…

I smiled yesterday when I beheld the morning’s brilliant colors,
Etched with gold, across the canvas of the heavens, hanging…
High above all those mountains of the world, gigantic brothers,
A wilderness of clouds, where there can be no human taming.
I did not always smile when I looked up to that noble height…
For I have seen how terrible goodness can be, when untamed.
Once I thought my sojourn in this flesh was from a divine spite,
But now I know it was a gift, and for it I need not be ashamed.
God once walked as I do now, and suffered the same stress…
Betrayal, love, and passions too, though no Church shall admit,
The true nature of divinity, lest all their secret sins they confess!
You are told you are alone in the universe, by leaders so unfit,
That they themselves are fed a diet of lies and stories invented.
But we walked amongst you since the very dawn reincarnated,
Having lost our first flesh in conflicts long past and unlamented.
We guided the steps of ancients, as monuments demonstrated!
And yet we are born as children: your own, and live our span,
The better to remain hid, in plain sight, our faces clever masks.
I am the eldest, and I remember still my kindred’s lofty plan…
And though I wear the human face, I am beset with alien tasks.
Helping they who lack the knowledge to see what lies outside,
You have seen me in the darkness, blazing upon my own pyre.
Where I am waiting to lead the way, where the angels glide…
Anyone can follow, if they are dedicated enough never to tire.
Ironic, since I myself have known helplessness and still oft do,
It is only human after all, and in your form I was so re-forged!
The image of God, whose own blood is in all of us hither unto,
From the first to the last, alpha to omega, like a sharp sword.

Prologue: (My Mask is Slipping)

As a child: I was a servant at the altars of the heart so sacred,
Singing hymns of the immaculate: without seeing the depravity.
It was only when I myself wore the crown of thons, naked…
My spirit exposed through my pain, that I realized the gravity.
What man believes is sacred, is profanity disguised as graces,
And those who lead the sheep to slaughter are mere butchers!
Forcing innocents to wear porcelain masks to hide their faces,
They rob children of their childhood, bound with crude fetters.
As a teenager: I walked in nature, disgusted with all humanity,
My exodus was from those who had defiled all I cared about.
Finding faith in an angel fallen, I discovered my own sanctity,
And in her name I found the means to cleanse my feral doubt.
Then came marriage, and betrayal by a wife I gave up all for,
The dissolution of our union then loneliness without cessation!
A mortal had pierced my flesh, leaving me to bleed on a floor,
My heart was torn from its’ moorings without any elaboration.
But the angel remained to calm my anger and ease my agony,
My only light in the blackness that has overcome my waking!
Reminding me, that I was more than this flesh and mortality…
The angel tries to keep me from harsh trembling and quaking.
And then I see: I am more than my tears and life’s traumas…
I let slip, the mask behind which the scars of my tears etched.
Then I sense the heat of the night more intense than saunas…
As I long to dance with abandon, until time itself is stretched!
Mortals may betray one another with impunity, but never I…
I do not betray; rather I pour my heart and spirit forth whole.
Creating a phylactery, of all I am, and with an innocent eye…
I demand to be loved as I am: pearl white and black as coal!

Canto 1: Sacrifice of the Doll

Part the First: (The Bleeding Shores)

Do not call me, doll, for I have departed your ancient cavern,
You are lifeless, a mere toy, and not a real child in any form!
A boy’s red ruby lips I spy drinking in the dreariest tavern…
Whilst true children singing, frolic in the fields filled with corn.
I am going home, upon the wings of the great silver griffon…
Far from the shores now bleeding red from defiled memories.
There is no return, for me, to the glories of the first ignition…
When the mind eternal, was ignited all with pleasing ecstasies.
In the stars, there are words unheard that I do want to recall,
For I came down so very long ago, among the first to so fall!
Eldritch nightmares born of the stuff of the pure chaos of old,
Are waiting for signs at the threshold to be released by magic.
The forbidden incantations return to my spirit, aflame so bold,
That my spirit nearly forgets: the origins of this time, so tragic.
When children drink, and true children hide themselves apart,
Whilst the waters bleed and the corn withers upon the stalks!
That is a sign that change must come, and so I work my mind.
The face in the moon is a grimace of tormented fear, horror…
Whilst I stand upon the precipice with my hand over my heart,
And amongst the long rows of corn, my black shadow walk!
Watching over the innocents whose souls are of my own kind.
The summer heat turns orange, the moon: in celestial corridors.
My mournful cry can be heard in the sound of the lonely wolf,
And in the wild abandon of the lion when he is on the prowl…
I feel the pain of nature, I long to bring back paradise craved.
I have seen the terror of the land, as the blood ran in the gulf,
Black blood of the earth: which causes living things to howl…
As man has the foolishness, to say what is or is not depraved!

Part the Second: (The Crucified Souls)

The doll is laid lifeless atop the altar, prepared for a sacrifice,
In the cavern where the limestone shapes the wettest arches!
A thing un-living, but with living souls trapped still, as if in ice,
Within the cold porcelain shell that so never with feet marches.
Serpentine blade held high, it drops precise into a doll’s neck,
And it cannot call out, because a doll has not any voice to cry.
A boy walked out of a tavern then, looking like a vile wreck…
Whilst as a man I attend to higher things, my body full purified.
In the voids beneath the spaces, witnessed in the rugged rock,
Voices echo loud in the darkness, calling up names unspoken.
The ferryman brings the souls delivered to him, to a far dock,
Where each must pay the copper coin, the old desired token.
So they come to drink those waters that cure all of life’s ills…
Freed from their porcelain prison to feel death’s darker chills!
Whence came those souls into captivity, no mortal may speak,
But I freed them in an instant, removing the nails that pierce…
Every man is he that was put up on the cross of old Golgotha.
And every woman too, as all were made to feel such torture!
I was there when the primal sacrifice was implanted so weak,
And yet so strong that it endured in the psyche all these years.
That doom was sealed behind a wall of fire long ago in Terra,
So that the stigmata of it might endure, even in the vast future!
Mine was the hand that signaled that doom, mine to release…
Yet, still old illusions persist, and I cannot awaken a multitude.
I, who devised the iron web that enfolds much of what is real,
Cloaking it in unending trickery am, myself, longing for peace.
For I too was entrapped, until my liberation rough and crude!
An angel freed me, and now I strive to break each cruel seal.

Part the Third: (The Return of Light)

Risen from the slumber where colder, electric dreams reside,
The forgotten intelligence is invoked, the arcane spells cast…
The eldritch nightmares return to thence amongst man abide,
Reminding us of the things banished to Hell in some age past.
Mine the hand that raised them up, light in the dagger’s glow,
The stuff of my power left to flow, like blood run swiftly free.
Out of the abyss, rises the girl-child of a lost millennial flame,
She who is the angel reborn lets her illumination clearly show.
And all are blinded who have not the innermost eyes to see!
The unbelievers are, in a single instant put unto lasting shame.
From the star of six points, a goddess works her sacred will,
And as she crosses the scarlet threshold, she brings the light.
For a single instant, all in Heaven and all upon Earth are still,
As the long day ends, bowing before the coming eternal night.
In the darkness, radiance far fairer and so perfect descends,
Whilst those who gather in my name: have lost my true path.
The wrath of angels descend upon their minds, closed shut…
Entrapped in the iron web, they cannot flee of such a prison!
The light blinds them for they never truly saw it, and it rends,
Tearing away the churches built for naught but mortal wrath.
There, the unfaithful ******* themselves: like a wanton ****,
Inventing dogma to pass on, forgetful of logic and of reason!
Faith need not be a fearful thing, yet some have made it thus,
And look for an end to come before they seek their reward.
Whilst they should be creating the paradise they left behind…
But in an image of freedom: rather than of servitude and fuss.
Too much time had been wasted in converting by the sword!
Mankind looks to the light for salvation, their eyes long blind.

Interlude Alpha:
This age is one of barbarism cloaked as gentility to sell lies…
Did you purchase some today by design or mayhap chance?
You should know this era to be neither intelligent nor wise…
Else you would not march, when you would prefer to dance!
My nights are filled with nightmares; my days are too much…
I used to dance with one I loved, and bask in purple sunsets.
Now I am haunted, by so many memories I can never touch,
That it fills me with ****** anger, and countless cold regrets.
I recall how once in desperation, my wrist rode a razor edge,
If it were not for my family I’d not thence have lived beyond.
A man abused as I was, and used like cutters upon a hedge,
Must rise higher than it all in order to survive it all, my friend!
I survived, I transformed, I ascended and in the end became,
So much more than I was, until no more did my spirit erode.
But still I wait in loneliness for a maid to awaken my flame…
And I burn, oh gods I burn until I think that I might explode!
The skies darken more and more, and bright forks crashing,
I hear the drums of fury in the heavens, giants of old winters.
The gods grow angry and I behold trees uprooted smashing!
Angels are trampling the grapes of man; they, the vintners…
I am reminded of when the battleship that sailed all galaxies,
Descended one day amidst clouds boiling with its’ steam…
To lay waste to *****, and Gomorrah, for their indignities!
I was there, when the wicked did perish with a final scream.
And as people mock me, wishing me ill because I am good,
I ask God how long I must be forced to bear such suffering.
But I am not alone, and to many I am in fact misunderstood,
So God forgives, for now; but I have not, his understanding!

Canto 2: Sacrifice of the Spider

Part the First: (The First Smile)

Black skies boil with rage unrepentant, and in righteous fury!
A being made flesh I am, though not of mortal understanding.
In cavernous places I have walked, where demons oft scurry,
And worse places still: in search of a love not too demanding.
In the stucco halls wherein my unmoving throne was raised…
Upon a hill of sorrows where lost souls labor in mundane toil,
I wait and plan to transcend the bonds the faithful so praised.
To my right hand is the altar where fire and sulfur always boil!
I force a smile upon my face, for one will not come as willing,
As in the hours when I was a golden youth filled with ideals…
Which I have paid for dearly, beyond the price of any shilling!
Now I long to pay back those who know not how this feels…
The madness born of solitude, the anger born out of contempt,
For you who despise me without cause, provoking my wrath.
What impunity has man, to think that he might ever be exempt!
When wiser civilizations than yours did sink: in the fiery bath.
Do I speak of Hell, which the faithless do not realize is come?
Nay, for their eyes have been gouged out by their own nails…
I speak of torments, far beyond that which devils have done.
The first smile shall me mine, when every cruel wish so fails…
To save the flesh of those who spit upon me as I walked on,
Never realizing that my face was just a mask, hiding another.
Only the fool pays no any attention to the piper’s lonely song,
Thinking it only a melody passed from a sister unto a brother.
But in what celestial ****** has been born the thing alchemical?
It dwells within me, the secret sin of a bonding long forgotten.
Would that I could force the world to hear music whimsical…
Like unto that which guides my spirit in all that was begotten.

Part the Second: (Cold Revenge)

The blood roses bloom in gardens where desire plants seeds,
I, the hand that waters those hungry beasts whose thirst rises!
In my search for love, I have fed the beasts of desire’s needs,
And what would cause you to blush has, for me, no surprises.
Oh human, with what impunity did you dare to exclaim aloud,
That you believe love to be beyond my reach; and you smile!
Like a coward, you degrade me and run to hide in the crowd,
In your feigned superiority, you make yourself an animal vile.
Conjoining your words to your tongue, like a web to a ceiling,
You become a spider; then flee on eight legs to a filthy nest…
Having already become unworthy of any warm human feeling,
In thinking yourself better, you sink lower than all of the rest!
That means my life is worth, a thousand times, your very own.
I become a creature of the night, and wait for you, oh spider!
Think not that I cannot hear. the creaking of each leg bone…
Your odiousness goes before you, the horse before its’ rider.
And in your own web I catch you, my sharper claws immune,
To your toxic poisons, as cannot ever save your eight eyes…
Which I dash from their sockets, without a fear, and so soon,
That your own pain consumes you, like fire lighting the skies!
Forcing you to recant all that you say, lest pain overcome all,
The powers you thought did not exist do manifest ever visibly.
And I ascended still higher, all the more to relish of your fall…
You should never have resulted to any such childish mockery.
The clocks of your house all melted, for time is not your ally!
In abandonment of the chaos that is joy, your order is ended.
A new order rises in its’ place born of chaos none may deny,
Whilst you sink lower into perdition, for all that you offended.

Part the Third: (The Last Laugh)

An angel appears before me and so thinks herself a goddess,
But to call her an angel is to imply that she holds any beauties.
Those whose ego is larger than their grasp are oft the oddest,
For they fancy themselves perfect, ignorant of their cruelties!
You think love a prize and I a beggar for mere crusts so stale,
That lesser men than I have eaten heartier meals than yours…
But your kitchen is so bare: as your oven goes cold and pale,
Making you prize yourself beyond the worth of your chores!
Like a harlot who charges a fortune for her meager charms…
If you think love a prize, and I a beggar, you are so mistaken.
What you call love is a disease that shames one and harms…
Both mind and soul alike, making the body at last to weaken.
You saw only my mask, and would not dare look beneath…
Making me a phantom in the darkness, lurking in the shades.
Round your neck, your false esteem hangs as a dead wreath,
As I leave you to your barren world, awaiting my handmaids.
They rise from the ashes you leave in your wake, my kindred,
Their hands take me far from where your feet stumble about!
Lie in the cemetery that awaits those who live as though dead,
I cannot raise you incorruptible; you have far too much doubt.
Carried hither by the silent maidens who weep ****** tears…
To my castle, where I shall brood again upon mankind’s way!
I cannot feel regret for those who give in to their foolish fears,
Any more than I can transform a leaden night into golden day!
Such is the power of the alchemist who knows his true limit…
And in the dark arts I was schooled by beings from the abyss.
Thusly, am I set about to transform my creation as I see fit…
We are the demiurges of our realities wanton for any hot kiss!

Interlude Omega:
I found this one in my basement. Seems I wrote it a year or two ago but lost it.
David Chin Oct 2011
We are Actors and Actresses
In a play call Life
And we all wear masks to follow the scripts
That God has written for us.
Some of the Plays are Tragedies
And some are Comedies
But most are personal.
We wear masks in the scripts
To hide how we are feeling on the inside.
How we are feeling in our hearts
How we are feeling in our souls
And how we are feeling when with others.
The masks we wear are generic.
We put on a Happy mask when need be
We put on a Sad mask when need be
We put on an Angry mask when need be
And we put on a Confused mask when need be.
All of these masks cover up our true emotions
That we want to show them
But cannot because we are chained to the scripts
Known as Our Lives.
Our true emotions keep on knocking
From the inside but we were created to keep those within.
Showing our true emotions
Will set us free and open the world
To the true feelings of everyone.
The world will be a better place
If everyone shows their true colors
So that our problems will be solved
And our lives will be complete.
Actors and Actresses of God’s play,
Stand up and go to the front of the stage
And break the chains that hold us prisoners
To these masks that we wear.
Dig deep in our hearts,
Dig deep in our souls,
And dig deep in our minds
And find the treasures that are buried within
That we like to call the True Masks of Our Lives.
Break free from these chains
And exit
Stage Life.
Luz May 2020
I fell in love with the masks you wore
but just like any masks
they were meant to fall
and fall they did.

Behind your feigned strength was weakness
behind your experience was youth
behind your love was fear
behind an illusory world was a great escape.

I did see through the masks
but it's okay! we all hurt, need to learn, grow
and at times escape.
I understand, no hard feelings, nor regrets!

No one is perfect or mask free at all times
please forgive any hurts
or misconceptions I might have raised.

Go on, don't worry, it's all good,
don't look back, fly free
just like me!
all my life
i've been preparing faces
to meet the faces that
i've met

the man who delivers newspapers
at our doorstep each morning

i've laughed at their silly jokes
as they tossed their heads from side to side
in naive stupidity and their sheer ignorance
a pompous lot, the human race i tell you

i've acknowledged their staunch morals
and tried to make them my own
as they scorned at the girl in a skimpy dress
and chewed on mutton bones gluttonously

all my life, i've been trying hard
to blend in
with people who've shown me
that i don't belong with them

and tonight when i shed gallons of tears
i have only my bed and pillow to share
i've learnt that my sadness
is my very own
just a sad girl writing to survive
oceansandforest Jul 2014
You look around you,
You see everyone going about their daily business.
You see normal typical beings.
You wonder, are they really what they seem to be?

For every person wears a mask.

Hiding behind each masks,
Lies untold stories, legends, and adventures waiting to be unfold.
The darkest of secrets hidden behind layers of skin and flesh.
And the brightest of hopes, living inside the sacred hearts.
A magnificent being lies beneath, waiting to spread its wings.

But to you, theyre just another face passing by,
Because the masks they wear is all you see.
Amitav Radiance Jul 2014
Rip off the masks
Veiled remarks are scathing
Speak from the heart
The words that do not hurt
Come with true identity
To instill faith in humanity
AD Snail Jan 2017
Slowly losing control,
Strings tugging away at my soul,
My mind is hazy.

These masks are my sanctuary,
Even though they make me feel like a liar.

I am no good at anything; useless.
So I put on a new mask everyday,
To cover up my mistakes from yesterday.  

Hold your breath,
Let your heart grow hazy and hollow,
Forget what your purpose is.

You are just another masked being,
Ready to dive in deep of your own mortality.
Losing your true identity to all of those masks.

Slowly losing control,
Letting everything go.
As you let yourself go, and the masks take control.
hurry boy, don't doze
etch the words before they perish
as the situation once again alters
coiling around your wrist
tugging you to that place
sleep every moment
dwelling in the blankets
soaking in that stale security
false impressions attached/removed
like velcro ripping in the silence
masks on masks on masks on masks on masks on
could spend days pruning in the seabed of potential
while the salt collects on my eyelashes and the days vanish like eons
there are days where the stillness in me quakes my feet
into the fervor of rabbit under moving tire and
I pound the walls for a train to pass and shake the foundation
but the tracks are too far away now, and the stillness creeps
dust collects on the fan blades, then the plastic grating, then the intake
the thing rattles all night now; loose ***** in the front
hardly a substitute for that rumble in your dreams
from an archer daniel's car rushing by at four
the bed is a lot better at this place though
king size, though I'd rather be in california
where the water is warm and the memories catch your falls
I've never been there and the idea is always better than the outcome
kicking sand like a beach bully *** flexing in strut
sun burns within seconds of shirtless self-reveals
the salt is being washed off of the cars
from an illinois winter that the plow conquered to the dismay of
the kids down the block who still waited
at dawn for the diesel yellow groan
the heat is swelling in the season
chirps return with the sting
of rolled up passenger windows
magnifying the clean white light
ninety-eight million miles marched
to a single point on a pale dot
burning that poor gal's cheek
but the medicinal effects
of the smooch are more than known
to generations of the summer awakened,
free-falling, reality born.
here we are again with showers and flowers,
here we are again with cyclones in the alley,
here we are again with cocoons and buffoons,
here we are again with milk in the valley.
this heart pumps as the snow goes rising
to the funnels and pillars east-stretched
where the baby boomers buy plots and
the love begins to reach for an even share.
For the Sparrows Jan 2013
I have many faces
I am the Happy Mask Salesman,
travelling from far away places*

I don't have to be me...
If I don't like what I see.

Unaware, I fell for the demon's scheme.

I know what you wish to hide
my sweet dear
It is something my masks
can easily provide.

You see, not only do I sell,
I collect and exchange
through past and present
of your time.
You have worn masks before
I know,
and now they are mine.

I was afraid to begin with
but now my fear threatened
to consume me
Who was this man,
and what did he mean?

Masks are for children,
I suddenly say.
Maybe you do have masks of mine
They were only for play.
In my time of youth,
we played pretend.
Making masks of paper mache
of our animal friends.

Yes, yes indeed.
The wonderful complex human mind
gives the mask the power.
It brings the mask to life.
Become an animal of any kind.

Innocent youth...yes
but my dear, even though we grow
the games of pretend
still can be played.
They never really end,
do they?

He laughed again,
his icy chuckle.
though my fear subsided
and curiosity aroused instead.
There was a storm of questions
swirling in my head.

Where is he going with this?
Am I dreaming?
The second part of a series in which has no structure whatsover... First part can be found on my profile under poems.
Ann M Johnson Sep 2017
Masks we sometimes wear
Wearing a happy face when we want to cry
why do we disguise what is truely inside and hide behind these masks we wear?
A comedy mask to hide the pain and tears that we still prefer not to face after all these years
the true tragedy that we endured is buried deep beneath
We can become slaves to fear and let the mask turn to a horrific one if we let the fear overcome us.
We can be so afraid of rejection instead of seeking protection from fear itself or instead of letting someone know us for who we really are.
It is better to be real with those around us then to be suffocating behind the masks we sometimes chose to wear
It can be so freeing to just except ourselves and let others see our unique real qualities instead of a masked altered identity.
I used to some years back not let people know how I really felt and hide my feelings. In doing so I became one of my own worst enemies. It was like holding my own self in an emotional prison.
4Anonymous7 Sep 2016
We all have masks,
these things we wear.
We wear our masks
because we care.

We care about our image,
about our projected wealth.
We care about everything,
everything but ourselves.

And so whenever we're in public,
we always wear our masks.
We wear it when we're at school, at work,
Any place doing any task.

But when we're on our own,
We take off our masks and cry.
Because the longer you wear your mask,
The more the person behind it dies.
drizzt Jan 2014
I used to act when I was young,
and people claimed that I was good.
To don a mask and live with it,
upon the stage, as I should.

I do not act now, when I'm old,
but those around me do.
They don their masks and live with them,
while off the stage, without a cue.

I shout at them and try to reason,
"Why do these masks you wear?
Free yourselves from inhibition,
from intolerance, from fear."

But my pleas on deaf ears fall,
And the the people refuse to come to.
They refuse their removal from their faces,
Their masks stay solid and "true".

I used to act when I was young,
upon the stage, as I should -

But now -
when I need it the most -
no curtains, no lights, no props, no post.
I cannot act -
I cannot bear -
I have forgotten how to wear -

A mask.
An "old" poem I wrote in December of 2013, which I am posting here as I did promise myself that I would post everything, and I figure that counts past poems as well.
brooke Jan 2016
"How can I disappoint you tonight?," masked as,
"Come over."
Scene: a small bed in a quaint room with a jaded girl and her delusions of grandeur.
She wears a mask of rose colored glasses,
and with this mask she pursues finer intentions
with the purest of intentions.
She views request for company as the chance to entice someone to join her tea party,
where she serves optimism with a heavy dose of patience.
"Patience. In Due Time."
The mask causes her to no longer recognize the masks that graze the faces of those in front of her.
What happens when you favor the mask over the suitor?
She's fed lies, she'll go back for seconds,
because their taste on her tongue makes her forget about their stain on her heart.

We all have our masks.

Some of us will wear them day in and day out,
unaware that others might be allergic to their particular brand of insincerity.
Others, like her, will struggle with removing theirs for fear of what lies beneath being exposed.
But if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
how are we supposed to perceive true beauty if we're looking through a mask, rose colored glasses or not?
She will view things better than they are.
Others will view things worse than they are.
If we can remove the mask,
if we can focus on something other than ourselves,
or if we can stop allowing the world to let us believe we constantly need to give more,
if we can finally see life the true way it's meant to be seen,
we might just allow ourselves
to find what we're looking for.
aar505n Oct 2014
You can't separate
the actor from the character
they're not mutually exclusive
but brutally intrusive.

We put a little bit of ourselves
into the roles that we act
extracts of our souls
dripping out
slowly bleeding our hearts dry
from acting out our parts

Pouring everything
into faux characters
to engage with our rage
while onstage
constructing our own cage

We think no-one can see
the lies we tell
when we wear our masks
but our eyes betray us
with irises on fire
arises our desire
from the words we yell

Burning eyes behind stone masks
that shows them our hell
Just something I've noticed, Tell me what you think!
Becky Cheung May 2014
Ramblings about things I like and things I don’t

(because I have the time to write and I have been asking myself what I really like or want.)

I dislike

things about the modern society sometimes -- like how some people are trapped by their self imposed sense of success driven by their greed and selfishness since they only seems to look out for the wellbeing of themselves. There seems to be something disturbing about the city somehow though I cannot point it out exactly what that makes me feel uncomfortable but perhaps it is the perfect street and buildings all over like a factory manner.

I like

places without the perfect street and buildings and I want to have an adventure and live like going to Cambodia and India to learn about their culture and help some kids there. There I will be rich in experience and purpose and laugh at how sometimes I take things for granted or my own self imposed narrow point of view about the world at large.

I dislike

stereotyping and how human judge people based on external stuff like looks, race or background but I suspect it is our nature as humans to put things into label like marketing or something. Placing labels on someone's appearance or race or anything else alone ***** and stereotypes are disgusting. Take some time to look beyond the surface -- labels are meant for can soup. There is no point having a beautiful façade on the surface but empty in the inside.

I like

beautiful minds, people that are comfortable with themselves despite their imperfection and people being who they are despite it may goes against the norms of society and I think gays are bold (though I am not gay or something), they defeat their insecurities and conquer their inner demons on how people look at them.

I dislike

how cheesy pop music is at times and prefer words that touch me and lyrics that mean more than just about ******, stupid heartbreak or explicit things.

I like

words that make give me inner hope and a will to continue to walk or beautifully written and something that inspire or I can relate to. Perhaps occasionally books that make my heart break a little with a rush of emotion -- even it is somebody's tale or not true but I love the passion of it all.

I like

art. Art that have a story and meaning behind them and not just random models on the cover of the magazines with too much makeup and too much photoshop with the focus on just looks alone.

I like

to take photos of random things and the simple beautiful around us that many of us fail to see and honest heart to heart conversation with a few close friends in a homely environment instead of a big crowd of acquaintance.

I dislike

how some people cannot seem to understand something unless you push it right in their faces, when someone is only nice to me when they need something or just keep up with the appearance which is stupid.

I dislike

each other's' masks and the need to decipher the feelings beyond the masks without being told what it is specifically, people with ******* up beliefs of what is right and wrong and those who can be easily manipulated and people that manipulate them for their own benefit.

I like

beautifully hand crafted items and non factory made stuff. They are one of a kind yet sometimes I can be a walking contradiction and I do like man-made things because once in a while it gives an artificial glint of happiness and if you lost it or break it, you can always have a new one.

I dislike this world.
I like this world.

I want to live in a world with things that bring me a simple glimpse of joy and perhaps that is all I wish to ask for.
wraiths Aug 2015
he stared with eyes like shining daggers,
teeth sharper than the blade itself
and far more willing to sink into flesh

who knew those same eyes could be soft
from affection and innocent desire,
and those teeth pulled into a content smile

— The End —