It's a one-woman show I'm on,
Ordinary clothes I don,
My words are my own,
Not a fake's on the phone,
I pretend I'm on stage
Like a bird on a cage.

Are there people around
Who can hear this sound?
Is this a silent plea?
Oh Lord, listen to me,
I'm no one but myself,
Tonight I'm on a shelf.

All words come from me,
In my mind these words I see,
Tonight they're of another,
I'm free to roam and wander
Around this little space,
Show one that's not my face.

But I'm still lonely
Although I can hardly
Feel my own emotion,
I'm in a situation
That doesn't merit poetry,
Real is life, existentially.

Tomorrow, perhaps it's play,
Try something everyday,
Something of anything,
Just to delay all the thinking;
My words do clear my brain,
But thinking is a strain.

I'm not myself even if I am,
They're not my words even if I said them,
It's not my face although it mirrors me,
Not my clothes, all that you can see,
The tears that fall are not my tears,
What I pray for are not my fears.

The night is over, there's the black hole,
The gray matter that covers my soul,
If funerals are not a mess,
If hypocrites in this world are less,
Perhaps I'd take an overdose,
And bow out of all the shows.

© 1996

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