Funhouse

We can only see what's on the outside.

happy face, streak-free smiles.

Why is it when we try our best,

even that can't help.

We can say we will help someone

but really we can't ever change their mind.

It's like all things we do to ourselves 

flutter from the pages of our heart

into the ink in the pen of another.

Your chapter becomes their metaphor.

A simile.

A paradox.

Not quite a mirror replicating itself;

but a house of mirrors.

Sometimes our reflections become theirs

and all we can ever do is hope the pills will work

the therapy will help

the hobby will take the pain away.

When in reality,

all we can ever do 

is look 

in our own house

and hope to god superstition exists.