Between the Mask and the Mirror

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I’ve been thinking a lot about visibility lately. At times I feel both seen and unseen simultaneously.

When I share my poetry, I’m visible. My words are honest, personal, and sometimes raw. I peel back layers I usually keep hidden in daily life. People who read my work see thoughts I don’t speak aloud. They see the vulnerable parts I often keep behind a calm, competent mask.

And yet, I’m invisible. Not because I hide my writing, but because I’m still learning how to market it. In a crowded world of voices, mine hasn’t reached many ears. I can speak, but if no one is listening, the sound disappears before it’s truly heard.

That’s the contradiction of showing your true self to the world while feeling like the world doesn’t notice. This week’s spotlight poem, Swampland, lives in that tension. It’s about being stuck somewhere in-between—between who I’ve been and who I hope to become, between the weight of the present and the pull of the future.

Swampland

Where I find myself now

One of two extremes exists

Either time doesn’t flow

Or time is all there is

Which extreme do I face now?

I cannot be certain

At least not until I find my way out

But to find my way out,

I must find myself.

He is lost and drifting alone

He is somewhere near

I can feel it

Deep in thought

Wandering softly over the dark terrain

The ground is moist enough

That if I fall I will be cushioned

And if I sleep, 

Even better.

And underneath this canopy

Not even sunlight can disturb me.

So I walk aimlessly.

That isn’t right

I have no goal for my feet, 

But my mind has a goal to reach

As I stumble over the wet land

I stumble over memories of who I have been.

As I stare blankly at the path ahead

I can see in my mind’s eye what I want to become

But is there nothing between the two?

Who am I 

There must be some link.

One day, the trees will open

And I will walk quickly 

From this boggy hell.

Some days, “the boggy hell” is just obscurity, the frustrating invisibility of pouring myself into words that don’t travel far. Other days, it’s the heavy work of pushing through the inner swampland of self-doubt, exhaustion, and the slow erosion of dreams.

But the poem reminds me: there is a link between the person I’ve been and the person I want to become. The search is not the whole of me. The fog will thin. The trees will open. And when they do, I’ll walk quickly, having a better idea of where I am going.

Until then, I keep writing. I keep waving my arms in the fog. Someone out there might be waving back.

Donnie


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Comments

  1. CorechamberAugust 11, 2025 at 6:43 AM

    Keep clawing. Progression comes with dedication. We all feel invisible sometimes. I know that there are a least a few people in this world, who are looking at you, waving back.

    ReplyDelete

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