Art of the Charade
I feel compromised
like someone bought my dreams
for cheap,
the ones I held dearly, as if I hadn’t.
My mind is tired.
I see through myself now.
I’m so self-aware
it makes me sick.
I see the brokenness in me
and hide from it
out of fear.
This emptiness
will it ever end,
or do I keep falling?
I wonder where I learned
to fake a smile so well.
Was it you, Mother
that taught me
to curse like this?
My insides rot
from years
of make-believe.
I’m scared.
Can anyone hear me?
Or will you keep praising
how long will I have to
endure
the charade?