Placements and Poetry

The People Pleaser; Libra Moon

I am not masked like a superhero,

Nor a common thief,

My masks have been curated,

Slowly over time,

Over lessons,

Perfected to a point of accuracy thought impossible

Some call my masks manipulations,

I call my masks perfect.

I skillfully slip off one mask,

In order to don another,

Not missing a beat.

I have never been caught,

No one has ever seen my mask slip,

Fore if my masks slip,

And I am revealed,

I will cease to be perfect.

Emotions will crawl across my plain face,

My innards will be displayed for all to gawk at,

A knife shreds my soft tummy,

All the way up to my chest,

Showing everyone what I am made of,

Muscle tissue and soft flesh, no machinery, no gears, no well oiled metal.

I am not the machine they thought I was,

I am not the machine that I myself thought I was capable of being,

I'm nothing more than a shell of the person I was.

I've been hiding for so long,

The only sense of identity I have left lay with the masks.

The meaning those masks have to others...

My self imposed purpose,

Use the masks to please those seeking perfection.

Those cursed masks,

That I so obligingly wore.

I wonder,

While the masks protect me from the vulnerability of my own emotions,

They also block me from my innate nature,

While I crave perfection in all realms,

I also crave humanity.

Perhaps, my masks are too perfect.