I Must Play

Location

Honestly?
This confidence?
A facade, a sham,
a role played in the performance --
my life.
Should the world be a stage,
I shall be it’s greatest
actor.
No lie has ever been acted upon
more beautifully and eloquently
than that of my public and private
presentation.
The scenes I enjoy most
I become,
yet I remain a mere artist,
painting my soul
over with a shiny coat of
“I am okay.”
 
At night
the curtains close.
The paint washes.
I pause my act
at the loneliest of hours
and reflect on the near reality of my day's
performance,
knowing that I have fooled the audience,
yet again,
and played my role perfectly;
 
I cry.
Tears run down my naked soul
and leave water marks that can never
wash away
How can one wash their soul?
of the Truth.
My soul has been subject
to the watermarks of
tsunamis and puddles
and rain and hail
and the endless waterfall of
the Truth;
 
I do not exist.
The only person who
“exists”
is a character played
all too well.
Even I have been fooled
and believed
in their existence;
 
I am never fooled for long.
The coats of paint and the props of
a fraudulent universe?
All too obvious.
No longer am I
myself.
I am an artist,
an actor,
painted to fit the part
 
I must play.
This poem is about: 
Me

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