Sometimes I feel like I should run away
It is as though I was never really alive at all
Seemingly enough
To the touch
The skin is only a dead cell
What a wicked way to sell a person
Through the eyes of another
The mass response is to cleanse the oil
To wash it all away in a puddle of living oxygen
Is it possible that all the person washes away too
All the wrongs should become clean
And forgiven
It is not so
Like a sideshow freak
We are all seeting with germs
The same, shared germs and microscopic animals
And yet I wonder
If we can ever really be clean
Zestfully clean
I am rather fond of Irish Spring
But it appears that a swwet smell only conceals
In effect, the skin is just another facade
To be pampered and worn like all the other masks we wear
I am growing tired of the masquerade