I've learned the flaw of stoicism: life
assumes its blows have no effect on you.
The world brandishes its serrated blade
and assumes that your armor can withstand
its tearing blows, its tyrannical rule.
Each day it digs in the ground with a spade,
and upon the lip of the grave I stand
and watch: the growing pile of dirt stacks high.
My demeanor remains dully unchanged,
my smile and expression stoic and bland.
My countenance marked by a weary sigh,
my gaze isn't kindly, and isn't cool.
But I feel the tormenting tremor, and
thoughts run across the landscape of my mind.
I constantly think, but don't know how to
stop waning, how to maintain the charade.