I write poems how I’m going through Hell,
‘Cos up close I know you can’t really tell.
I spend days getting mentally ready,
So for that one afternoon you think I’m better, already.
Then I go home and fall
In a heap ‘gainst the wall,
Because if I’m better at all,
It’s just putting on elaborate shows,
So that you just won’t know…
I’m not.

It takes me three days to mend,
And then I do it again,
But the laugh is on me,
Because the person you see
Is who you expect me to be,
Anytime, anywhere.

And it’s simply not fair,
Because that person’s not there,
No that person’s not there,
Because that person is me,
And that person’s not me.

Such a perfect disguise
That you believed all the lies,
But it’s to my demise,
’cause when it’s time for the truth
You just believe in your eyes
From all the times that I lied.

Lied, to me and you.

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