Shielding myself with this strange façade
To deflect the questions and the crimes
To make more forgiving the words left unspoken
For lack of a better term, to make “everything fine”
But the fine lines are a lime sign of my brine spine
Cry on the blind side of the book’s fine lines
Since smiling is but reconciling with the splintered filings or bad timing
Soon the sour devours and scours, etching lines, brow glowers
So I’ll just tell you plainly, the smile is fake.
So I’ll replace it with a stiff upper lip and braced eyes.
I’ll be indifferent, if complacent, but faking’s not fine.