The Mask

He's come out to play again,
the Tortured Artiste with his
words to Shock, words to Appall,
words to elicit a visceral response.

The verses are written on the wall
with which he's surrounded himself,
letting nobody in, letting noself out.
He's locked inside

alone with no company
except his pain, his memories
and the secret fear that he'll never reveal.
You know the one.

And it knows you.
The fear that the pain is the only substance he has,
that there is Nothing Behind The Wall,
nothing that would interest anyone anyway.

The fear that he is nothing but the fear,
that there is no "him" in there
behind the emotional granite,
a whisper in a vacuum.

So, the words, they fall
like angry poker chips
on the anguished green felt
of his bloody existence.

He's mixing metaphors again,
His psyche as both a wall and a poker game.
He has to call it something
because he fears that it is nothing.