You know that dream...
The one where you stand
in front of a crowd,
naked as the day
you were born,
and you look down,
and back up again.
A crimson-shaded
ghost on a stage, burning red.
And the crowd have their hackles up,
Laughing maniacally, and they hold
shackles up, trying to tie you down.
Well, that was my life...
The crime? Being out
of sync with the structure
of society, walking in lines written
by bigger men than me,
or so I thought originally.
So, I complied...
I fell in line with the lie.
That to be, I had to not be.
I tried to be who I was “supposed” to be,
not to be a stain on humanity.
I gave my heart willingly,
and I never demanded anything.
Certainly not attention...
But then I found poetry.
And the mask
slipped from my face,
crashed to the ground
and smashed into a thousand fragments,
and now I stand on stage,
baring my soul for all to see.
Every emotion dropping to the floor,
the years of masks, the armour,
the shackles, and chains and more...
Naked.
Proud.
And no one laughs.
As I raise my voice loud,
as I lift my head into the clouds
and bask in the wonder.
Because I realised
that the layers I'd built
hid away this true me.
The one who loves to create, to play,
to share, to hold close those for whom I care.
And now I don't
turn beetroot red - I shine instead.
And I'm still different.
But I embrace that.
Every quirk,
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