richardbyrd

The mask I wear is like no other.

Hiding away true-self, a caged animal.

There are times that I take off my mask,

Becoming vulnerable.

Such as a scarecrow in a cornfield.

It is because of the vultures I keep this mask on.

They squawk and they peck,

Hurting the maskless.

This mask that reflects the smile I desire to wear.

To some the mask is the arms of lies,

Dragging deeper into oblivion.

But that doesn’t stop them from wearing it.

The mask is a piece of them.

It becomes their second skin.

Such the vulture’s words are natural

Their words are guns,

The second they pull the trigger they can’t take it back.

It’s their words that forge the mask.