Not that I can't say or fess,
I just can't tell it's affirmed.
It may take me quite a while
Before I can see the next scene.

I could write a thousand words,
But no sense, they're not all connected.
I may have the script in my hands,
I couldn't comprehend not a line.

Twists & turns I can do,
Yet no pirouette will I get to show.
To find or to not find?
That is the question.

It's not in there, not in me;
Only the pen can weave it.
In the depths, beneath a rock,
There goes my heart again.

What do I feel, does it matter?
Mustn't be the same, I can tell.
Will it take me years or lifetime,
Or will a period end it all?

But who else can say, the director?
Or him through the actor?
What if both don't say the same line,
Should I trust the provided manuscript?

The apple of my eye is he,
Stole my sweet smiles, touches, kisses & dreams.
Though it wasn't all an act,
Why would that actor lose me good?

Not a poker face nor a trickster;
How come he fits the scene so well?
Here I am staring at your perfection,
Now all annihilated, blind & muted.

Then I have none else to say,
But this is all but a monologue
Of all I feel inside for the actor
Who might give me a miscalculated scene.

Though who's to say be blamed?
Oh yes, it must be the writer.
Hold on, the writer & actress are one entity,
And that is all but me.

So until then, my audience,
I'll keep looking up to that actor.
More songs, dances & acts will be made,
And he'll be there behind the scenes.