Home is where the hurt is
There comes a time when each of us
must look at harsh, unpleasant facts,
facts we'd rather keep concealed
beneath a mask of self-deceit.
The crisis comes,
and our flaws are so glaring,
redemption's door so distant now,
there's nowhere to look but the mirror.
We have to see ourselves the way we are,
strip off this intricate armour,
or fall for ever to schizoid realms
where nightmares crow their victory
in the sentient black.
                         
Darkness; I see two figures,
one a clown in garish blue and orange,
his floppy hat a symbol of the art he pretends,
the other I'll not name,
if that's alright.

But it's not alright,
and in your dreams the monster will pursue you.
The mirror sees;
it knows you too well
simply to return the image you show,
without interpretation.
Don't listen, though;
no-one is as bad as the man you sometimes fear you are;
the little man, cringeing inside you,
hoping all his flashy schemes
will keep the world from what you're truly like,
afraid of your nakedness,
no excuses here,
no pretending you've been misunderstood,
no hiding from the spotlight;
this is the real you.

Believe me, there's no real you;
we peel off layers, onion-wise,
but when we reach the centre, the core,
we see, through tears, that what remains
is so much less than what we've cut away;
our masks, it seems, are masks of flesh;
removing them not only hurts,
it destroys.

Inside the clown is crying.
He laughs; forgets.


Comments:
There are no messages yet
Allan_Marsden
Poetry
Free Verse
writing Allan_Marsden
Bookmark and Share

You must log in to rate.
This has not been rated.

Synopsis
An old poem put up as a test piece to check how the site is working
© 2014 WritingRoom.com, LLC. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
WRITING | POETRY WRITING | CREATIVE WRITING | WRITE A BOOK | WRITING CONTESTS | WRITING TIPS