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.
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