My sarcastic wit is both a knife and a mask;

I can cut those who would hurt me

While hiding who I really am from the world.

So who am I?

Really?

Someone scared

And unsure

With doubts and worries.

The mirror is always a harsh reminder of such.

The exterior stays collected

to present itself to this cruel world of ours

While the inside is screaming,

“Why do you ask for perfection?!”

“Why do you want me to do so much?!”

But the screams stay taped inside

because then I think,

“It’s not so bad.”
“You’re doing just fine.”
“You don’t really have much to worry about.”

So the inside calms,

And the mask stays.

Because if they don’t know you’re hurt,

they can’t judge you.

And if the mask slips,

revealing what is hidden,

Pray they’ll be kind

to the self-conscious geek inside.

If they scorn

And mock

And cause the river to rise,

Get on your bike and pedal your worries away.

Go off into the sunset.

No one can catch someone who chases the sun

Or the stars.

Perseus and Ursa Major don’t judge you based on your shortcomings.

And trust me,

there are plenty of those

When people expect perfection, failure is certain.

But I take comfort in the fact that those who have pulled off my mask

have not done so with the cruelty of Christine Daae.

And they have accepted my faults.

Yet to the rest of the world,

I am my mask.

But I am not a waltz

(First of all, I don’t like counting off in 3-4)

I am not a steady paced,

predictable dance song.

I am really a loud, dance-around-the-house-when-you’re-supposed-to-be-doing-something-productive kind of song.

Yet the music never leaks from the mask’s eyes.

And when it does, it can only be in front of the trusted few who

Look into the phantom heart I keep safe behind the mask.