She thinks she knows her masks
herself and all her depths
deceived,
no puzzle solved
new pieces shown
her flesh and bones
engrained inside her wary soul.
prompt: “masks”
The Melancholy Spitfire
my voice through poetry
my voice through poetry
She thinks she knows her masks
herself and all her depths
deceived,
no puzzle solved
new pieces shown
her flesh and bones
engrained inside her wary soul.
prompt: “masks”
I feel the very same way about myself Emily. Guilty, sorrowed, apathetic and so many other weird realities that I can’t decipher.
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Yes, a continuing conundrum.
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