Bare

Bare

One by one, I’ve left my other parts. Clothes I wear. And for a lot of times I simply not move, not talk so as not to buckle. I shut myself. So I needn’t to play parts people like me to play. Parts people love to define, even paint.

So I thought. Hiding places aren’t watertight, life trickles in and one is forced to conform. And how one reacts upon another. Was it true, false a genuine or a sham? Come on, ask. Ask as if we lived in a theater, and ovation matters to me.

I move or don’t. People shall admire me or don’t. I am understood or not.

A smokescreen, my bare skin I wear I wish hurts the eye and I pretend I don’t want people re-acting. Or maybe I am not.

I want everyone to see me before anyone even have any coffee or tea.

I go on and on until this skin I am wearing molts. The color that grows on me is two weeks ahead from being named, depending on what degree one stand by a light.

All figments. 

©2008 v.j.m.a.