She takes her seat before the glass.
The reflection she sees so far from what she feels.
“Why do we show the world a mask?”
“Are we afraid of what they’ll think?
Will they turn on us? Betray us?
Will they laugh?”
Of course, most of the time they do.
The world is a harsh place filled with judgment.
It is filled with those who are eager to tear you down.
They wait preying in the night for a victim
Someone they can control,
Someone they can manipulate.
But who are we really?
Where do we draw the line
between what we show the world
and what we hide from it.
And when does it begin to change who we are?
I am a victim of the world’s cruelty.
So many of us are,
Writers that is.
We fill our own personal volumes
With prose about everything under the sun,
Yet we know that it will never see the light of day.
We fear what people would think.
We fear what they would say.
So we hide.
We wrap ourselves in paper
We put shining, sparkling bows on,
And we burry everything that makes us special,
That makes us different,
That makes us beautiful.