This drapery consists of a mask that rests

Itself on the surface of my face

But conceals my inner core.

My story is composed of a chemical

Concoction that portrays my background

With the strength of words and imagination.

Some say "desperate times call for desperate measures,"

But my desperate times call for isolation.

In the afternoons, I am driven by the emeralds of Nature

and Her tranquility,

As I swipe my inky instrument across the white material

Held in the palm of my hand.

I inject bittersweet fluid through my veins,

But present innocence to the faces

Whom I have never witnessed.

Summoned by a fiery blame, I suffer wounded remorse

And unmanageable anger.

Although my exterior strikes a "perfect" blow to the naked eye,

My imperfections are never sighted by those

Blinded by my outdoors.

I judge myself mostly by the hide, but not the seek

Because the cocoon I shelter in hovers over my insecurities

Leaving a blank disguise.

I tend to hold a distrust for the Eye judging by my portrait,

Not my story.

My frustration is of a sickness that never exits my presence.

It builds up like plaque,

But my raindrop tears drain from my eyes down the faucet

Of my cheeks, as the mood resets itself.

At the most stirring situations, I call on a few partners

Because my acquaintances hide their appearance when

Terror interferes.

When days are sunny, I cling to persistence like a child,

Someone to life my head high when nights are rainy,

And clouds are gray.

But this curtain still fades me from the light that illuminates

The stage.

I stay hidden from the sight of many, but I wait for my queue

So when time is at its best hour,

I can bloom a beautiful butterfly,

But until then, my temple stays trapped behind.