We walk in suits of painted grace,
Porcelain masks in a cage of skin,
Each smile stitched with silent screams,
Each gaze a veil drawn paper-thin.
Madness is a ghost we dress,
In perfume, ties, and daily lies,
A twitching thing we leash and choke,
With social laughs and hollow eyes.
The dinner clinks, the coffee chat—
All scripted plays on cracking stages,
Behind the lines, the actors rot,
Whispering secrets in rusted cages.
No one sane, not really—not ever.
We clutch to norms like drowning men,
Pretending still, in storms of glass,
As if our minds were whole back then.
We’re lunatics in ballroom light,
Spinning in gowns of desperate calm,
While deep beneath, the tide runs black—
No lullaby. No prayer. No balm.
So raise a toast, you fractured kin,
To the game we play and the masks we wear.
For sanity is not a thing we own—
Just a costume, threadbare, worn with care.
YOU ARE READING
When Silence Wept
PoetryIn this collection of poetry, the veil is torn away, revealing the undercurrents of darkness that run through the human experience. These poems are raw and relentless, exploring the spaces where light fails to reach, and the truths we fear most come...
