She wears her masks
Of happiness and joy
So convincing is she that everyone asks
“Is there ever a moment you don’t enjoy?”
Though she always asks herself
The very opposite question
The jar of tears she keeps on a shelf
In her guarded mind with her depression
Always showing her forced smiles
She cowers behind them
Her life filled with emotional guiles
The only part of her flower left is the stem
Her once bright sun has long since faded
But who is this “she”?
Who holds her own masquerade?
This “she” - this jester – is me
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