Paint

A poem about the masquerade that we all play sometimes.

You paint a door,
you paint a wall.
You paint a car,
you paint a toenail.

It all fades,
sooner or later.
Later or sooner.

So why isn't this
smile fading?
This painted,
"I'm fine" look.

Why do they see
this image, this figure
so beautifully painted?

Why do they not see
the ugliness behind that
perfect patina?

You paint a stone,
you paint a flower.
You paint a room,
you paint a pot.

It all fades,
sooner or later.
Later or sooner.

Why is the world
blind to all the black
beneath the beautiful paint?

Why can they not see
the pain behind that
unfading paint?
Can it not break once?

Author's Note

All types of comments are welcomed; critiques, spelling or grammatical corrections, suggestions to change bits, and even your own thoughts on the poem. All are appreciated!