The Person that is me

My weary feet traverse,

Across the darkened room

And in this place where I'm about to enter,

I need not fear of coming gloom.

But before I enter this place,

No mask may my face contain.

So I grab some soap and water,

And watch my mask run down the drain.

No longer have I my masquerade,

No longer a plastered smile,

I've taken off the disguise I've worn,

And carried for many, many miles.

My elongated journey,

With a few more steps will end,

As I scrutinize my room,

For some paper and a pen.

No more lamentations,

As I place my body in a chair,

And I begin my writing therapy

With a new sense in the air.

My microscopic elation is growing

In my heart steadily now.

Without the constant conformity,

Always telling me how.

How to live my life,

How to soar above,

How to fulfill my calling,

And have their useless love.

Now that I'm alone

With the consuming silence as my friend,

I let my burdening thoughts,

Guide the strokes of my pen.

My extreme fervor escorts my pen,

Beyond human comprehension.

It releases the pain inside my heart;

The pain inside that dungeon.

Tranquility so deep,

Fills me to the top,

Without any nagging trepidation

Warning me of a reputation drop.

I can have overwhelming intelligence,

Or be incredibly dumb.

I can write while I have lots emotions,

Or write while I am completely numb.

I can write what's on my heart,

I can write what's on my mind,

I can be tremendously cruel,

Or I can be extremely kind.

In this place I will be myself,

And it will be plausible, too.

At least to anyone who really knows me,

And knows the things I do.

No audience will scold me,

No tomatoes will be in sight,

If my presentation isn't great,

Because in this place there is no spotlight.

The only ones in the place,

Are me, my paper and my pen.

And this is the reason I can be myself;

The reason that I need not pretend.

If anyone will come here,

They will finally see,

That this is the person that is not portrayed;

This is the person that is me.