I’ve always suppressed myself

too scared to express myself.

Tried to be a blank canvas.

Too scared to start painting, in fear

it would turn out a mess.

Had to be, has to be perfect first time,

every time.

Careful brushstrokes; calculate; paint neither too thin nor too thick.

Just paint some pretty roses or a bowl of fruit, nothing that will make a statement,

that people can punch or people can kick.

Blend the colours, so much that they become one,

so that no one may see the rough patches or the contrasts.

A glaze of what I really am,

so thin people see straight through me to the prettier  picture I have created beneath.

This false identity that I have so mindlessly become.

Who am I?

The true me is now merely a stain on the so-called ‘masterpiece’


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