Who is it that hides behind the written post
the mundane musings of a cyber-ghost
a picture of one you have never seen
yet call them friends, an introvert's dream
Do they pretend to laugh, when flames of hell
tickle their feet, and the dead man's knell
rings to the beat of their heart's drum
and they beg that the darkness never comes.
Are they composed, unruffled, tranquil, even placid?
deadpanned, poker-faced, stone-faced, impassive?
Yet while comprising a sentence, leaving nothing to spare
their world is exploding, they are left with no air
Normal is a strange man's ambition
a foolish game, for there's no transition
to be normal is to live as some one else
to be normal is to live as some one else
who you don't recognize to be yourself.
Behind the post, you hide in consonants and vowels
make people think you have spilled your bowels
when all you have dumped is empty bullshit
for behind the sentence exists a misfit.
Behind the post, hiding in the wings
avoiding their own image for inside it stings
stands a soul naked, its secrets uncovered
waiting to be noticed, to be discovered.
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