adding to the Confusion

I am not me, for me’s deep inside,
He's buried in masks, an aspect to hide.

A shapen shell, a flawless façade,
Contributors of an illusion made.

There are only two holes, to hold my eyes:
Brown and muddy, young and unwise.

And looking into these windows, into the soul,
You can see shattered pieces of a broken whole.

But the pieces have power over the puppet outside,
Housed in his body, his movements they decide.

He speaks when he’s told to, smiles on command,
But that, too, is hollow, an echo of this man.

This man has a name, but a name means naught,
Though it’s a comfort in the cold: it’s all that he’s got.

A mask’s not a man, and a man not a mask,
The two are distinct, though they are one when asked.

I am me, it may be true,
But what makes me me is not being you.

The End

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