This poem is not the one I was after. But I will post it up anyways.
`

The masks we wear, to us are given,
assigned to us before our cue.
The choice is ours to reveal or hide-
A grand charade with many a clue.

Would you be this or be you that;
Is it surfaced or is it hidden?
Not all secrets are lies or deceit,
Our view of others we must widen.

The genuine heart will itself reveal
Its spots or stripes are where they're at.
The lot of what we think we see,
provide but circumstantial caveat.

One day in the last couple of weeks I came upon a random comment from a fellow web poet that relayed his desire to one day be 'published' which after reading on he meant in a traditional book form, printed pages bound and sold in bookstores and shelved in libraries. I responded back that legally, posting your work on the www is considered by most countries as being 'published' as if you were going the traditional route.

With the events unfolding here at the New Neopoet last week
I have come to the realisation
(probably known sometime in the past now but below the surface of conscious recognition)
that we can almost easily separate a poem from its poet (creator)
but it is much more difficult, if at all possible to separate the poet from their poem/s.
There within that truth must reside one of the the keys to the human aspect/consideration of critique.
The purist may argue, compartmentalise, dissect, and reduce all to pedantic methodology

To those of us that suffer from writer's block, as we all do from time to time.
`

and when you find
you cannot write
and will not write
read

read and scribble
until you are able
find your hand
again

and let the Muse
she your guide
your soul hide
again

and again find
your feet once more
in the shadows
read

`