The Masquerade
Oh, your eyes so dry,
Longing for a long cry.
All those fake chortles,
Hollow habits of a mortal.
Someone asking, "How's your day?"
You liberally
Lying with "I'm okay."
Okay is not the word I'd use,
Though it's an excellent excuse
Hiding my aching bruise.
Rotting is what I'd use.
It's my soul's beloved ailment.
No, it's not a bruise,
It's just a mere statement.
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