I am uncomfortable
Here in my comfortable life,
Churning through the days
A bewildered automaton.
Appointments and should haves and could haves elude me
Nothing's worth bothering with, really
Except...
Except...
Except...

I am not unhappy, I just don't fit
Into my own life.
It's like someone dropped me, awkwardly, into these clothes
And told me where to go
And what to do
And how to eat
And meet, and greet,
And somehow, I'm good at it,
Not being me,
Perhaps the discomfort
Gives me an interesting edge.

So, where is my real life,
And who is living it, then?
Is she as bewildered as me?
Does she abhor or adore
her worshippers?
Is she at home on the stage?
As she sings and recites and receives her applause
Is she wishing she could sing a completely different song?
If we met
Would we envy each other,
Or scare each other half to death?