As a child, I had clay masks hung upon the wall.
With strong nails, I was assured, they would never fall.
Some painted with sparkles, stars or a musical note.
The best one; had a peacock with feathers that float!
I wore them everyday, never a day, or whenever I pleased.
No matter the words I heard, I wore them even if teased.
But then, one day, I grew old.
“Those masks aren’t the right masks for you,” I was told.
New ones were bought for me and hung upon my wall.
And it didn’t matter if the old ones were knocked over to fall.
Childhood dreams stomped and crushed and left.
Because these new masks, I was told, is what fit best.