Sometimes even I cannot recognize
when I’m merely wearing a disguise,
putting on another clever scam,
hiding who I truly am.
For such is the way of things—
when you wear too many rings,
assume too many shifting roles,
and each hidden misery tolls,
louder than any cathedral bell,
until I’m no longer able to tell
true truth from crafted fiction,
regardless of perfect diction.
Yet this is the real poetic curse—
whether for better or for worse,
the tribute I must again pay
to perform within my own play,
to recite these ever-trite lines,
in keeping with my own designs,
and hope they might still be read—
to justify all this ink I have bled.