THE PRISMATIC SELF

In the hall of mirrors, I lose my face A maze of reflections, each one a different shade Of truth and lies, of light and darkest space I search for the real me, but it's hard to stay The judges' voices whisper, "Not enough" A litany of doubt, a choir of rough Hands that shape and mold, yet can't define The contours of my soul, the lines that make me mine I write to be seen, to be heard, to be known Yet in the arena of words, I'm overthrown By fears and doubts that masquerade as facts And the masks I wear, a dizzying array of acts But still I pen these words, a self-portrait in shards A synesthesia of pain, a colorless hum of doubts That echoes through my mind, a haunting melody A reminder of the self-fracture that I can't define And when the verdict comes, will I be brave? Will I don the cloak of validation, or the shroud of shame? The answer lies within, in the prismatic self A kaleidoscope of contradictions, a messy, beautiful wealth