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Katie Debner Masquerade As the tears of the crying violin heal my anxiety, I enter the masquerade. Concealed faces, hidden stories, and veiled identities. Each person is disguised and torn away from life’s callous realities. Suddenly, I’m blinded. The peculiar flicker of the iridescent light reflects off the glare from his gleaming eyes, as if penetrating the details of my mind. Although he has a hidden character, He sings to me my untold story. So I dance with his hands intertwined with mine. All I know about him is the fear in his eyes That I would notice his true identity, Hidden behind that dishonest barrier between self and idealism. I close my eyes, but he already knows me. How is it that I am hidden, And a man that I have never known Knows me better than I know myself? Although we try and mask ourselves, It’s our eyes that divulge the realities. We venture to hide from the rest of the world, Striving to conceal who we really are from each other. And the harmonious music stops, awakening us into the world, And the most perfect dance comes to an end. A story untold and incomplete, yet we say our ultimate goodbyes. No sense in allowing tomorrow ruin the masqueraded man I have come to know.

Daniel-Henry Kahnweller by Pablo Picasso Can You Hear Me Now? Lonely, lonely man, Tobacco-filled lungs and rainy Mondays,


Torturing your lungs and your heartache. She is gone now, asleep in the Heavens, What is this truth that you try to hide? Lonely, lonely man, I am calling out to you. A self-righteous form of suicide, you say. Now your body’s on the floor. Can you hear me now? Lonely, lonely pipe.

Man with a Pipe by Pablo Picasso

Natural Woman The perfect circles and natural beauty of a woman’s breasts, Her almond shaped eyes, With an indefinite place for them to rest.


Oval shaped petals make up flowers on her sides to remind me the scent of a woman. Long fingers of a soft hand by a gentle face, To remind me the femininity of a woman. Ah, and of course her lips… Plump and red, red rose An arch above her imperfect nose. But of course, The perfect circles and natural beauty of a woman’s breasts.

Woman with a Book by Pablo Picasso

This Makes Me Sick This is not what I anticipated Opening the golden door Into this brand new world Where happiness doesn’t exist. Where absence isn’t missed. And sweet words of love are twisted. This makes me sick. His perverse intentions are slashing me apart


Why must He feed off my desolation; Making my depression his ailing obligation. They say pictures should be kept even after death. He’s dead to me, and they sit on my shelf smiling back. This whole world agrees that absence is bearable. Then, why is missing you unbearably not repairable? Mending a broken heart means erasing memories But I don’t want to lose who you are in my dreams. His smile lingers in the room. Am I weak? I just close the door. No point of stepping over the threshold. ( The breathe marks on the door is another woman, whose POV this is in)

“Meeting at the Window” K.A Vasiliev


FOUR POEMS