Wake up. Sigh. This isn't a dream.
At least in my sleep, things aren't what they seem.
Trivial objects frame concepts of home;
My toothbrush, my moisturiser, my comb.
But yet all these things mask the torture inside;
Behind an acceptable visage I'll hide
So people don't have to deal with my mess,
So people don't have to see my distress.
But it doesn't help, does it? When we hide from the world,
When we refuse to present our own psyche unfurled.
With a gap between public and private persona
We feel like McGowan or Ronni Ancona.
A perpetual impression of people we feel
Present a model of happiness that's total and real.
But maybe it's healthy to keep some control
So some light is still visible from out of the hole.
