Hello! I added this poem for sort of an experiment to make sure I actually know what I'm doing before I add any stories. Said poem is below. I take joy in saying that. Anywhoo, ...said poem is not in my usual style at all, and I'm tempted to explain it, but I guess then it doesn't really qualify as poetry, does it? It has to be vague and all, right? I hereby justify myself.


The city is paved with gold and the pallor of masks.

Enter the actors, who stride along in a dignified stumble;

Each fragile thought hidden behind the whisper of laughs.

Behind everything, behind the husk of a lie

Of a face lies emotions no one wants to hear.

The playwright is counting his dollars behind

A smile painted on his lips, a hand to his ear;

He listens as his words press themselves into other's hearts.

The choice is not something you have to make;

Your life is your own, which is why the masked, the named

Will replace your face with one that is fake-

In the city of gold, everyone must be the same.

It is why the named don't remember your name-if you had one.

Enter the mask; once it has been placed,

Nobody can see what lies behind your eyes.

Not even the one who you sell your heart to.

Unless you allow him to peel it away, but, when he tries-

Someone who peels away the stage and the lines and the mask,

All they find is an empty cask.

What was left before the mask is gone.

The mask of a city pale with lost souls,

All trying to find the street paved with gold.

You, the one with your face in your hand,

Laugh and move on.