The Actress

Tangled in her words
on a oaken stage she sat,
speaking in tongues and quips.

Scattered among lords
a dozen masks lay flat,
impressed by what she equips.

Some for pain, some for pleasure,
some for when we’re together.

One for farewells,
and then one to fare well.

Others for loving and lighting,
or is it for hating and hiding?

Some for friends and some for fans,
and then there’s that depressed one
for when the high inescapably ends.

An ideal image to aspire,
but truth lacking to inspire.
Reserved in pose and prose,
a real voice nobody knows.

It’s safe, comfortable, and clean,
heaven-forbid you were to be seen!
Don’t mess it up, don’t do it wrong,
try to impress me, I’ll play along.

But that’s not what I want,
a visage of cool and orderly.
Just give it to me;
the real, the raw, the messy.

Your fears, your faults, your fumbled words,
a broken heart of scattered worlds.
Here in this moment, now is your chance,
where’s the real you? Give me a glance.

Now a slave to what you’re hiding,
based on a lie that you’re not worthy.
You can’t feel the deep, dark, and ugly;
it’s your true beauty you keep on fighting.

She stood as free as one could be,
and then began rehearsing “please love me”,
the tragedy from act three.

There she was, a real-life doll;
what she thought I wanted,
was given her all.

But I am flesh and flaws,
of feelings and faux pas.
I can’t make love to perfection
nor a body made of porcelain.

And so she stayed,
small and afraid.
At least she was safe,
in a familiar space.
A life of doing it right,
has inevitably quenched her light.

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