Persona

when you ask me how I am, I don't quite know how to answer. rather than admitting my life being disastrous, I parry your thoughtful blow with a joke, redirecting the question right back at you. the hypocrite in me revels in my inherent inability to practice what I preach; instead of allowing my feelings to flow freely, with utmost consistency I cowardly hide behind line upon line of charcoal-tinted ink, posing rhetorical questions, to mask my own grief. it'll be the day when I at last admit to being clueless, my existence mixing Atlas with Sisyphus; forever rolling a boulder up the incline, just to have it fall back down, carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders.