All Made Up

 

This poem talks of cakes and circus clowns, but its mood is anything but celebratory.  I am sure there are those out there besides me, longing for truth in this age of prevarication and bait and switch.  If only we knew what lay under all that frosting. 

Thanks for coming by to read!

 

Poetry’s the mortar that we spread upon our lives

To cover up the interstitial cracks.

Poetry’s the frosting on those sweet, delicious moments,

The binder that disguises ugly facts.

Slather on foundation, like a second skin of falseness,

Pick your pretty words to calm the din,

Smiling, like a circus clown, parade around in make-up,

Not admitting, what a world of hurt we’re in.

 

Copyright 2020 Andrea LeDew