Under The Mask Poem by Heather Kemper

The mask that I wear
is cracked and slightly worn.
The truth is leaking out
but no one cares to look anymore.
For my children and my mom
even more for him.
I play more often than not
then to let them see within.
What I feel I cannot say
I cannot act on the screaming impulse
to give in and let the blade slice.
To cut out all the ugly
the stupid I would simply dice.
Leaving less than a shell of a person
who's maybe something right.
They don't understand it
they think it's all for show.
What the cannot really see
is what they choose in their heart not to know.
Every slice every cut
is intended just for me.
Not for their eyes to judge or wonder
if they caused me to bleed.
It's a punishment
a sentence
a checking of the self.
A correction of the wrong
an emptying of the disease
that's been a poison in me to long.
With every rip and every tear
every shredded hole.
You see more of the darkness
the disease
that everyday I know.
So I putty and I spackle.
with a smile or with a laugh.
So they won't be effected
by what's beneath this broken mask.