Masks

Everyone
Hides the truth.
Impossible for anyone,
To know who we really are.
Big beautiful eyes,
Kohled over,
So that no one
Can see behind them.
The ghosts lurking,
Swimming in the wake.
Ancient folklore professed
They hid you from demons.
Masks.
Today these demons,
Are our colleagues
And best friends.
Because judgement,
Is more painful
Than hiding.
Whether we hide behind;
Our bodies,
Ornate clothing,
Make-up,
Or piercings.
There is a storm brewing,
Building,
Behind every eye.
Hiding,
Beneath the Mask.

Mind Trap

My Mind Trap.
Seeing those that aren't there,
Things that have never been.
People betray me
While standing by my side.
Monsters lurk in the corners
Of my strained mind.
Faces appear,
Follow me around.
But as I turn
To view the invisible eyes,
They disappear
And no one is around.
This pencil forms the words
But not in my hand.
It looks like another's
Flowing my fingertips
To this page.
Even that which I do on my own
Seems to betray myself.
So it's here
That I tell my story.
As I give myself up to you,
These words from my heart.
For if you read this
Then you know how to read me.
Now I retreat
Back in to my mind
And give in,
To these thoughts
That overcome me.
And make me lose who I am,
Who my friend are.
And what they have really done.

And So It Rains

Laying awake,
Listening to the macabre melody
Of the storm.
Cleansing the world
Of a day now past.
Holy water to the landscape,
Steaming away
The collected impurities.
To a new mornings dew,
A delicate coating to protect
From what's to come,
When the sun awakens
The creatures of day.
Realization dawns.
That is not the beginning of the new.
However,
That time is more subtle.
Sometimes felt by those
Those awake long enough
To seldom glimpse,
The phantom portal.
The time,
When worlds stop turning.
Yet, the second hand keeps
Ticking...
Much the same,
As the rhythmic rain.
That is where
I hide myself.
Eternally bound,
Unable to remain.
And so it rains.

Dreamscape

When the world
Is fast asleep.
Blanketed,
By a sea of stars,
To keep them warm
Throughout the night.
That is when the magic happens.
Fairies dance among
The trees,
Skate across ponds
And streams.
A dreamscape,
In reality.
Every child's fantasy
Come out to play.
Stop believing,
And darkness
Is all you'll see.
Stay young,
And become blinded.
By the beauty
Of their dreams.
So I stay awake,
To bask in the innocence.
Next time,
Wont you join me?
Remind yourself,
Of youth.
And live,
Within the Dreamscape.

A Writer on Writing

     Precise, elegant brushstrokes cover a barren canvas with a scene and can fill the viewer with emotions that they never knew were possible. Instead, replace the paint with the perfect words and you can transport the reader to an alternate reality and reduce the strongest man to nothing more than a bawling child. Writing is an art using words as the medium to create a masterpiece that can withstand the passage of time. The raw emotion that can be poured out on to a page lets the reader be a part of the most intimate of thoughts and allow the writer a sense of personal therapy all at once.