These words fly from my brain,
Like planes land on paper page
With wings of ink, the tip touches,
Scratches and taps.
Taps for the dead of brain,
The crazy ones who think they’re sane.
Fooling only themselves,
Because everyone else can
See through their masks,
The skin beneath, the real peep.
Their smiles are just more,
Maybe possibly less convincing,
Than the grating laugh,
Brought on by something unfunny
Said by a so called buddy.
They know nothing about,
Except for a name they hardly remember,
That matches the man,
The face they can’t quite recall,
As they pass in the hall,
They wave like strangers
What they really are.
It’s hard, hiding whole-heartedly,
Away from humanity, only half handling
The harsh, flesh-ripping reality,
And the worst part is, in all actuality,
Is we can see what you’re hiding,
Who you truly seem to be.