I feel like crying ’til a drought is claimed,
every pound I’m losing feels like naked truth
every fear I’m feeling seeping through my skin
manifesting clearly on my unveiled face
only in the mirror staring back at me
to everyone else I seem convinced
so sure of each step, unfaltering will
no sign of tears behind my eyes
ready, at a trigger’s notice to spill;

gotta keep my comedienne’s face alive
gotta keep my voices finely tuned
gotta keep my humor as a mask
gotta keep my costume finely groomed.

Emily Cloward © 2016-2018

Find more of my poems at The Melancholy Spitfire

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