Mental library.

This mind is fragile,
like the fleeting of a child's naivety.
All these different faces
variations of me.
I browse them in mental library.
Try each one on to see.
But the more the more hideous;
morbid self focused, little me.

I centre myself around my image.
Each personality craved to please;
but my irrational transformation never brings relief.
I force myself into another's contorted life,
with out thought or mention.
Faking only brings strife

I wear my happy face when I'm working;
it brings only pain,
that I can not be myself
and serving others brings me pain.
Being low come minimal income,
Brings family politics and shame.
I am the monkey at the bottom of the tree!
Each moment bitter, distastful, strain.

I wear my jealous face;
I wear it ever so well.
With all the spite and b***hiness,
the other c***s think me wondrous hell.
When my back is turned the knife is plunged right in.
But who am I to question it when I follow the exact same sin.

I wear my wistful face;
daydreaming well away.
The face I bare most peace in,
but am never welcomed to stay.
People complain of it...
About how my mind does stray,
but with all the dreary worn faces
Who can honestly blame?

I wear my mutated face;
The one that truly is my state.
The one with haggard eyes
and hardened like gray slate.
The one that releases the others,
to take this idiots place.