A breif poem about my personal identity. |
Fingers riveted to fill the gap, a mask I spend days lurking behind, like the webs above my crown, spun with smoke and coffee steam; the flouresent light from the computer screen, it blinds me, bleaching my skin, hiding my expressions behind a white guise; my aging eyes do droop, the circles 'round them badges of honor, I strain to thrive in the screen's light, to melt into the swivel chair; the silence that hangs about me, it drapes itself onto my shoulers, embracing me and kissing my cheek, weighing my old bones down; the words that blink before me, typed by my cold and achy fingers, are all I may afford to nurture, the only comfort I need seek; I keep my mask on until dawn, when my eyes flicker and weld shut, to my bed I do crawl blind, and curl into the abyss my blankets hide; upon advancing beams of noon, the mask has slipped away, and left is a child, wide-eyed and drained of the life once held; stumbling out of my bed I drop to my knees, feeling the floor, to find the mask I so cherish, the guise that makes me impenetrable; little do people see it is a mask, for foolish they are and so convinced, it must be real, and the child the one that is the trick; yet here I sit in the darkness, bleached by the computer screen, old and wise with the world that exists not, a wasting fanatic; I must keep such a mask on, slight the corruption in me and smile, for it is all for the best, no one must see me. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- I realize that this poem may be a bit cryptic - but, in a way, it's supposed to be. At least, the underlying message in it is meant to be. Thanks for reading! |