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.
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Author:
Libellule (
Offline) - Published: April 28th, 2025 05:32
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments1
Ah the disguise of a poet. Hidden behind the mask of verse one's soul to immerse in words raw yet metaphoric. A glorious farse even when one's costume is sparce leaves the mind euphoric. (excuse the poetic rant) I love this poem of how poems are a poet's disguise and the question of whether it is worth it. Nicley written loved the rhyme and flow
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