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I’m a fake
I’ve hid behind this plaster mask
of grandiose and glamour
of contentedness
and early mornings
smoking cigarettes.
I’ve buried deep within my shell
my tender, moist pink meat
so that you see a shiny pearl
a gloss upon my weathered skin
a cover-up for wrinkles.
This mask protects me from the wind
my shell is a home for
wounded snails.
But now that the world is ending
all that’s left is
so frail
it’s strung upon a golden chain.
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The 'I'm a fake' beginning leaves little to the imagination, but over all I find the whole thing presents me with a picture of aging. Freaking love the part about a pearl gloss that covers up wrinkles. What would this poem look like if you wrote it without some of the adjectives? Like shiny pearl -- the pearl in my brain is shiny.
I think this is a cleverly written piece. It has the feeling of you having searched and finally found. Resignation. Clever word use; the title, the last line.
