Painted faces,
passing down the art of painting faces.
One generation to the next.
The trade,
only improved by the length of the masquerade.
What prisoners have you,
hidden behind that colorfully vibrant,
demure yet playful,
meticulously manufactured exterior?
Has reservation offered an invite,
for your arms to take cross before you?
Has sadness and frustration kissed you, with the lips of a lemon?
Has the artist of pain taken residence in your life,
shadowing your soul,
glazing your eyes with a thick coat of emptiness?
Have you too,
become another painted face,
lost within the confines of themselves?
Identity,
smothered into remission
by the ambitions of humanity.
Humanity,
offering mere granules of acceptance
to anything beyond the audaciously defined standards of social normalcy.
Do any of us really lead such a pristine existence?
or have we all settled into the mild satisfaction we acquire in blissful conformity,
performing our assigned roles in the act?
Each day,
reblanketing the barren canvas of self,
to soothe the agony of the days before
in preparation for the days ahead.
Careful to conceal the carnage.
Tending superficially to scars
that will never find the time to heal.
Destined to become buried in the debris field of painted faces.
...
Painted faces,
passing down the art of painting faces.
One generation to the next.
The trade,
only improved by the length of the masquerade
Art work @
http://orig09.deviantart.net/5eb1/f/...girl_clown.jpg