Living as The great pretender is a worrisome detailed directive.
Mimicking and foretelling and imagining desired responses...
posturing for false posterity, immodestly boasting nonexistent
skills lying about well being and excusing inabilities with elaborate
fabrications we invent ourselves normal and illustrious
for the truth is too much to bear.
Not just for me.
Master illusionist seems to be in high demand.
The truth sends people skipping and stammering and
running for safe hiding.
Avoidant glances and excused absences and
hastily curtailed conversations ensue.
Your words confuse and leave me, so I nod and smile a lot
say what is expected of me, lest you see my lost eyes.
The more I try, the less I understand,
the more people speak, the less I want to know.
I see revulsion in your eyes but I'm to keep playing saint
while you sneer in disgust and move away from me.
Every molecule of mine tightens and is stressed
by life nor its participants care not a thing for my feelings,
I just can't seem to get on the same page.
I wish I could act them right out my temple,
but they always take center stage, ushering out
instinct, perception,
Even superficial distance nor disinterest does not assist
for my fears are an avalanche,
and there are no rescuers searching for my buried body.
So I dance, as fast as I can,
suppressing anger and rage, and their predecessor, hurt,
lest you laugh at me while I share,
barely hidden behind your cupped hand and lowered chin,
you snickering into the good graces of another who would
bash me too.
I perform well and emote and entertain,
because I couldn't give tickets away
when I was keeping it real.
Everybody loves a good story.
Maybe that's why we're all playing such convincing parts.
