Appearances

Everywhere around us, we see a happy face,

It matters not the time, it matters not the place.

They’re friends and co-workers, strangers and lovers,

They’re even relatives too,

Yet something isn’t right, something, I think, you knew.

We ask them how their day was, we ask them if they’re fine,

They tell us it’s all right, they feed us lines, they lyin’.

Their words we believe, their smiles we trust,

We think that they’re alright.

We never dare to look inside, or see their hidden plight.

Pain, turmoil, despair and doubt, yet never with a frown,

We’d pick them up and comfort them, if they told us they were down.

But pride is funny, we can’t share pain,

But keep it locked in tight.

Hold it close, never tell, surely it will be alright.

We tell ourselves these lies, allow these deceptions plain,

And everyday present a face; our happiness we feign.

We trick ourselves, we believe the lies,

All around us must be joy.

Yet with our own happiness, why do we destroy?

This author is not special, it’s normalcy he’ll feign,

He’s always asked “how are you?” and responds with “I can’t complain.”

Yet truth is never easy, to tell or to discern,

And outright lies are dangerous, telling them he’ll spurn.

The face that he wears, like any girl or boy,

Is meant to put you at ease, another deceptive ploy.

The truth, he’ll say, to anyone who’ll hear,

Is that unlike those around him, emotions he doesn’t fear.

They’re nothing, they’re easy, something to be controlled,

“Suppress your anger, fear, sadness, or your woe is already foretold.”

But surely you, the smart reader, attention you have paid,

And know that everything he’s said, are lies that he just made.

So why, you ask, why do we lie,

When all around, the people we know, would help or at least try?

Shouldn’t we share, reveal the lies,

Tell it to them true?

Allow these people surrounding us to help us make it through?

Good luck, I say, coaxing out what’s inside.

Finding truth, any truth, requires endurance through the fog

Careful observation, considered contemplation, a surgeon’s deft touch.

To find truth outside yourself, in grand irony,

Requires one to become a master of deception.