Masked

I'm fantastic, wonderful, and excellent. In a sense, I enjoy every evening and I live each day.
I breathe, laugh, write, and sing.
What will the new days bring? I wonder.

I remove the mask once I arrive home.
Finally, the day and nearly impossible task are completed, so I lie down and peacefully await my death.

Even though I have vows to keep, I bawl, shout, and weep myself to sleep.
I wait, wonder, cry again, and am physically and emotionally exhausted.

When I realize I'm not alone, the mask once again emerges, letting all of my sorrow, suffering, and tears flow while maintaining my day-long happiness.
A rainbow-filled planet without even a hint of gray.

No matter how much I appear to shine, I'm obviously not fine.
I have no idea why I feel this way or why my life seems to be a never-ending hole.

But it is and will be, therefore I cling to life out of fear that one day I may trip and stab it to death.
Regardless of what my dreams may indicate, I'm still here, and I'm hoping that one day I'll genuinely be fine.