Behind the niceness

our facades,
on display as in a museum
with smiles
out to play.

what lies behind those curtains
behind the icing
behind the outside,
what happens to all the things gone wrong,
stuffed into the basement of our consciousness,
stirring us in dreams
or signing our malicious looks
born from hints of humiliation,
with flesh.

the pain of knowing
is our conscience, we know
the world's game, the pain
which stretches on and on
makes us less able players.
pain ignites the temper, makes
us flare into curses, dance with
the drum of all that we hide about
ourselves. it's the horror
of knowing that the pain
does not become anything else
but itself, like a panther
waiting to escape.