Have I become too morbid in my verse? 
Has my rhyme deteriorated from something sublime 
To the level of crass poesy,
The grist of ham-handed hacks?

I convinced myself I could spend
My remaining days joyfully, 
Radiating hope, a model of optimism. 
Instead, I feel my contrived mask slip, 
Revealing a quiter, sadder,
Contemplative self. 
Help me detach this mask.
Quit this masquerade.  
I need to find myself before 
I see through my own charade. 

4.5.16, 
7.30 pm