The Mask
"My pen drips of sorrow and on this paper, I write each tear"
She wears her feelings as a mask.
Keeping them in the closet,
gathering them up like the thin blanket
on a cool summer night,
holding them close,
not daring to share the love, - - the pain.
She cries alone, sometimes for love,
sometimes for hate, sometimes just
for shear desperation.
Trapped in a treadmill life,
she lives moment by moment,
day by day, and memory by memory.
Behind the artificial smile
she breathes heavily.
Behind the sweet remark, loneliness.
Seemingly astute, a cordial demeanor
dances around silent flippancy as
she compliments.
She exudes evasiveness,
mistaken for mystique and candor.
Wearing this mask as a second skin,
she is eventually consumed by the charade.
There is nothing left of her
but pretense.
© aug 12 2011 Charles Henderson
For Constance's "just write contest"
Copyright © Charles Henderson | Year Posted 2011
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment