The Prismatic Self

I write my soul in ink on paper, My skin is stripped away, Blood replaced with ink that flows through my veins, Defences shattered and the visage of lies is broken, My mask is taken from my hand and replaced with a pen, I don’t have to hide my feelings, Feelings that are so destructive they must stay hidden, Hidden from those I love and care for, “Yet you still share your poetry” Anonymous. Always. Maybe I like the mask, Mask is my friend, Mask helps me win the contests, Mask helps me make people proud. But when my mask is on they call me a liar, Am I liar? Is the ink on the paper really my soul, Or a twisted caricature of who I believe I am? Do I know my soul at all, Or is it as true as looking in a circus mirror The circus mirrors make me feel sick. Or is it just me who’s sick?