Sitting by the window sill with a cigarette in hand,
Hiding from everybody who I really am.
The mask is imbibed so deep,
That I have forgotten how reality feels.
The scarring mark is a little too surreal,
The piece of trauma is nothing ferial.
Not so happy with the journey so far,
Waiting for the end to shine with the stars.
A story pained with a lot of tar,
Clinch so hard to ensure no door is left ajar.
Something about lying feels comforting,
The truth slowly seems to be deserting.
The makeshift persists but it is a sham,
Maybe that’s who I really am.