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
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