Through this focus,
a sort of
hocus-pocus,
I have to conjure up.

Why do I go out?
People just patronise, sympathise
and materialise with,
'I pity you' eyes.

Please don't cry
through that stare
of yours,
stencilling my contours.

False tears are
liquid-wrapped lies
falling on numb ground.
It's my truths that should be falling.