When I
Write poetry,
People will see
The real me.

The one who
Is forced to hide,
The one who
Wants to confide.

She’s been there
All this time,
Softly hitting
Her chime.

She is the
Real one
Who feels the
Pain a ton.
Forced to hide
What she’s done

She’s been there
All along
Singing the same
Old broken song.

She’s tired
And broken
Doing the same
Old sin

She’s seen and
Felt all reality.
Wonders daily
Of when she

Can come about
To the surface,
Wonders what
Is her purpose?

Why is she
Forced to feel
When she has not
Had a chance to heal

From what people
Have done to her
Will there ever
Be a cure?

There’s a thing
Called depression,
It spreads like
A big infection.

Wanting something
To fill the void,
Yet she is no
Sigmund Freud.

Wants it
All to end
Yet has no
Strength to fend.

Doesn’t wanna hear
Any more yelling
Please, let there be
A happy ending!

Home should be
A happy place,
Not where you’re forced
To put on another face.

If you think about it
We all have our mask,
Some have it through a
Small drinking flask.

Some through
A simple pill,
That takes away
Their free will.

Some through
A freaky drug,
That will make them
Look like a thug.

Some through
A little knife,
That could in the future,
Take their life.

What will
It take
For us all
To make

The right
Decision,
And take on
A new vision?

So when will
We begin to realize,
And look into each
Others eyes?
And discover what
Is truth and what are lies?
So who are you
To be the one to despise?
Or in the
Least criticize?

So I have to ask,
What’s your mask?

5-31-10