A life in two halves, a worn, heavy cost—
The first half in pleasing, the self almost lost.
A smile for their comfort, a word for their whim,
A performance of living that left you quite dim.
The second half stolen, a debt you must pay,
To anxieties kindled by others’ dismay.
A flinch for their judgment, a fear of their tone,
A prison of worry you built on your own.
So my dear, leave now this play, with its ****** disguise,
The cue-cards of others, their roles, and their lies.
The curtain, it falters, the stage hand has slept,
Enough of this script you were given and kept.
Now, let the boards creak with your unguarded stride,
No mask for the wings, no role left to hide.
Let the rest of your days be a quiet, bold art—
A life from the marrow, a truth from the heart