There’s no such thing,

For the true essence of me

Is hidden deep within.

Entranced in chroma,

Hypnotized by darkness;

Streaks of white are rare

In the canvas of my likeness.

For I hold this brush

In front of groups and mobs,

Angered and waiting to crush

A heart’s single, silent throb.

And I paint myself in colors

Known only to a few:

Hypocrisy, reality anew.