I know: it isn't Friday. It's Sunday. Poetry is for Fridays. Yet here it is....
A fraudulent life
I have invented myself. A Frankenstein,
full of envy and dark fantasy.
Readily hurt—dismayed when people don’t see me—
and so I build more subterfuge. More make up.
Clothes that hide the lack of symmetry underneath.
Yet the music still reaches my soul, even when I
look into the mirror and see who I am with
Dread-full clarity: fearful lack of symmetry.
still I hear the music. Sometimes loud, clear, and
other times faint, mere Echo.
The music of the real me, still alive beneath
the awkward limbs and odd scars of self-construction.
Hamlet like, I scurry among
the voices uncertain of the
truth though it be plain as the nose…
And I, like Hamlet, will also be dead at the end of my play.
And will all be set right (symmetrical) though bloodily