Sitting, thinking, waiting.

Exhaling.

I fear the fear,

of failing.

Yes! I wear my mask.

I smile.

I laugh.

I become the sun's beams.

But underneath this white paint,

I silently scream.



Suffocating, drowning, caged up.

Inhaling.

Inside,

my soul is wailing.

I paint my smile red.

The blue tear,

I paint in my head.

Hide the face.

Make it erase.

Cover it with rouge.



Gasping, clutching, grabbing.

No breath at all.

Its silence is blissful.

My name it will no longer call.

The curtains fall.

The doors are locked.

The seats are empty.

My monstrous face,

they will no longer mock.



Silence, silence, silence.

Asleep in my breathless dream.

The illusion has ended.

The tailor has taken out the seam.

The white paint?

Gone.

The red smile?

The blue tear?

Gone.

The monstrousity underneath?

Gone.

Discarded paint.

Discarded illusion.

The mask is not a mask.

It is the dream.

And it is beautiful.



By: Roy Quebedeaux