Showtime

I’m sure everyone’s heard that old saying

That when you look up at the stars there’s no way of knowing

If they’re really there

Maybe they’re already dead in the air

And I don’t want to get all maudlin on you

But that seems to me to be quite a human concept, too

Because you can’t tell at a glance if someone is still burning

Still breathing, still beating, still heaving with life

Or if they’re just sticking around

For as long as it takes us to realize that they’re already in the ground

Stage makeup that covers up the dark circles under their eyes

Bright lights that obscure missteps and forgotten lines

When they stumble it seems scripted, and when they fall it seems fake

But it’s never fake or scripted,

They’re at the epicenter of an earthquake

They’re going supernova but the curtain hasn’t been lifted

So the audience doesn’t see, and the public doesn’t know

The best actors in the world! Depressed teens! Put on a show!

They play themselves in a show called life

Dancing duets with a razor or a knife

They portray better, mentally stable themselves

They’re trying to find a prop labeled “happiness” on the shelves

But backstage, the green room is empty and barren

No costume or mask to protect them from the staring

Their dying monologue has been years in the making

But the critics will say, “What a terrible oration!”

Their encore has dragged out without a standing ovation

Death lurks backstage, and it’s a thankless job, living

Sure, there’s an audience of loved ones watching you play

But he’s the only one clapping when you step off the stage

The curtain call has come

The fat lady has sung

Now the stage is empty, but for the ghosts of the theater

Reading old cries for help in slow tone and meter