The Painted Me

The Painted Me

Beneath the checkered veil of guise,

A mask reflects the world’s reprise.

My lips curve bright, my laughter plays,

Yet only my eyes betray my ways.

Each stroke of paint, a shield I bear,

To cloak the truth I cannot share.

The crowds may cheer, the faces glow,

But they will never truly know.

I rise each day, the mask prepared,

A visage bright, a soul ensnared.

The colors bold, the lines precise,

Yet beneath it all lies sacrifice.

A harlequin for the world to see,

A dance, a laugh is what they want from me.

the strokes conceal, they shroud, they bind,

The self I hide, the truth confined.

The smiles they cheer, the jest they crave,

A painted doll they cannot save.

Yet my eyes, unmasked, unfeigned,

Reveal the sorrow I’ve retained.

For deep within, a quiet plea,

A voice that whispers, “This is me.”

No ruffled collar, no grand charade,

Can touch the soul that fear has made.

Each gesture grand, each line rehearsed,

A shield against the unversed.

For who would dare to strip it bare,

To see what lies in shadows there?

Do they fear the quiet pain?

The storms that lash within my brain?

The weight of tears I dare not cry,

Lest the mask slip and they ask why?

So gaze beyond the painted art,

Into the windows of my heart.

For though the mask may play its part,

The eyes remain the truest start.

But in the quiet, when I’m alone,

I strip away what’s not my own.

The painted me fades, piece by piece,

And in the dark, I find release.

Yet still I wonder, day by day,

If I showed my truth, would they stay?

Or is the mask the only me

The world could love, can you tell me ?