Melting Masks

I do not aim to misbehave,
or say things too true for comfort.
I would rather be easy, the perfect diplomat
I was raised to be, not

the stranger, always on the brink
of something best left unsaid,
hidden in the dark confines
of Pandora’s closet, truths

that are not unkind, not unloving even,
simply not for the neighbors, not
for the perfect, or those that wear
perfect masks.

But your mask has fallen, melted
from the acid of lovers thrown
in the midst of a midnight dance,
and what is left are scars and truth:

love, less the thing of storybooks,
and more raw, yet somehow
stronger, and far, far
more beautiful.

About This Poem

Poems come from the strangest things. I got a junk e-mail today, and I only saw the headline before I deleted it. The headline said “I aim to misbehave.” and from that, this poem, which has, I am sure, nothing of whatever was in that e-mail in it.

The picture is of a recent painting, “Anxiety”. More of my art work can be seen here.

Tom