Under This Mask

I wear a mask, every single day.
Smiling that all is well, always witty jokes to tell.
No more can I pretend, or be your humble jester,
humor is a mask I wear to hide the troubles deep I bear.
I sport a beard like it’s a sport, of course, it covers up my pores.
You will never know what really happens behind closing doors.
Shut and locked, trigger held with pistol cocked,
doors blocking rocking chairs of thought that creak and rock,
don’t hear your knocks. Rocking back and forth to sort of
harmonize with ticking clocks,
I’m kicking rocks no shoes or socks, feet bleeding
Like the knuckles of the knuckleheads who ever knock,
my thought is stocked, but are you shocked?
I’m guessing not, still you implore,
To see if you can talk to me and walk freely past closing doors,
no try no more. The night has come,
when knights will die come mourning sons, with morning sun and loaded guns.
Seek. Not. These. Wars.
Be-hind. Closed. Doors.


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