blank
faces passing by, masks
matching my own, who
am I?
starting over, a new city
a new life, a new
me?
can I be?
time to pull out
the paint
and colour my mask
brush away
for a new me
in a new way
YOU ARE READING
Sweet Enough
Poetrywe grow like fruits, until ripe and get plucked and discarded, if not sweet enough. *** a compilation of poems, thoughts and other reflections.
