The veiled
madness,
The manicured
answers to silly questions,
A poised
giggler,
Some
sort of art here,
A blend
of substance and babble.
What
mends the broken strings in there?
Who owns
the voids that now live there,
Her madness
is her own
But what
of the little sense she has left,
that too is her own
but
she struggles to articulate it,
Arg,
then veil the wisdom as well,
Parade
her to an audience,
Tell
them stories they want to hear,
Hold
back the truth about her life
Render
such days a necessary waste,
And
be free (in the awkwardness) only when alone.
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