January 11, 2009
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I am an isolated figure,
Made of stone and painted white.
I’m not allowed to break my smile
Because then the paint would crack
And you’d see the crumbling rock beneath.
Inside my soul is faded gray,
Lined with age and dust.
Hatred festers freely within its walls,
For who dares give it love and warmth?
Not I.
Nor those who claim to love me.
They are my prison-keepers,
The molders of my iron encasement.
Once they've painted and polished
Me to their own satisfaction,
They leave me to drown in silence,
Returning only to hush my broken voice
And hand me the script to the play
I must perform if I wish to please them.
My hollow heart weeps, though my eyes cannot,
For that would smear my painted cheek
And crease my smooth forehead.
All I can do is swallow my emotions,
Gather the tender ashes of my heart,
And pretend I’m not human.

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