With feeling skill I paint my hell,
a portrait mask with lips of ruby red
And wheel me out my shattered corpse to sell
While self respect stays home in bed.
While every caller pays their debt
I repair the cracked façade,
Step out to expectations met,
Greet the whim of Jack-the-Lad.
Day in, day out, you chip away
at my dreams and fragile soul
and while I toy and tease and play
I dig myself into a hole.
And while you work on your extrusion
I’ll cling to life’s lost illusion.
© Aisling Doherty