I don’t even know me—too many years in the hiding. I’ve lost my face among the masks; every time I think I find myself, I find I’m trapped. I’m in a world where I’m stuck, because even when I hide my face my masks get struck. My personality my morality everything I’ve ever believed has been torn away from me. People look at me in scorn disgraced by me. That’s why I’ve made myself a fake face you see. Fake laugh, fake smile, fake triumphs, fake trials. I created my own outer shell, locked the door and tossed the key to my own hell. I’m left picking up broken pieces of who I used to be; Shattered hopes and dreams. Wondering if there even is a real me. If there is a “me” that can be seen, you’ll find it in my writings. My stories, my speeches, my poems, breech the brink of calamity and literary insanity. My intuition tells me that’s the perfect definition of me. But who am I, as I’m seen? By this population of literary disregard and degeneration. So many of you claim to have found me simply because you’ve been around me. But which me have you see? The cruel me? The mean me? The kind me? The literary queen me? The stubborn, controlling, supreme me? The list is endless it seems. Are you known by the company you keep? Your hopes and dreams? How many tears you weep? Or how long it takes for you to come apart at the seams. Through my writings I’ve found who I think I am. Through the silence of sound my words taste bland. It’s time for me to put my pencil down, and pick up my feet to stand for morality and my real beliefs. Excuse me while I write another literary speech. My real audience awaits the never fake me.