People tend to think it's an act
When you want to **** yourself
And it kind of is
You have to put on an act every day
In order to get through basic ****
Showering,
Eating,
Social interactions,
It's all an act
But you still want to die
That part most definitely isn't an act
That's the most real part of you
The deadest part inside
Is what's keeping you alive

The attention seeking *****
Seeks attention
Because they wonder if anyone actually gives a ****
Or if everyone else is putting on an act, too
Because if all the world's a stage,
And we're all just acting,
Then why not **** off some characters
Shakespeare got rid of Romeo and Juliet
And they were still famous
They were still the stars
And if you can be the star
But still be dead
Then why keep on living
When you're already dead inside

She says she doesn’t have the strength within herself to write poetry.
Yes, her. The one who so often nourished me with song
til my soul began to learn how to hunt for itself,
whose word carried weight in leading me to pick my own instrument,
albeit one of a different tone,
as the key in keyboard became prominent for the first time
and the sound of purposeful fingers upon it could be considered,
only in the right light,
synonymous to the plucking of strings, just as rooted in emotion.

Yet she's the first to say that she herself can't do it.

Thing is, I suppose we’re politely at odds on the matter.
She favors poetry that’s sharper, with a cleaner cut,
that’s message is immediate and jarring
as a conduit running from soul through skin,
or a loose-lipped diary finally freed from lock and key.
And when she declared it, I started to consider what my poems seem to me:
Blackberry bushes (but kinder, I hope)
that snag and immerse just long enough
to make me feel I’ve had an effect.
I’ve used writing to expel my most gnarled feelings
to any passerby who’s maybe felt the same.
Like crying in a mirror:
alarming, but oddly refreshing,
and an indefinite reminder that our aches are never only our own.

Still, I'm not sure why it blows my mind
to hear that even the most glamorous hearts,
who wear confidence as a summer breeze that's always in their favor
and who inspire, from beau gestures to sleight of hand,
are included in those who find themselves pacing back, back and forth,
begging curbside at the dime store
for a scrap of the same feed that convinces a heart to pump ink.

But she says that any art that's enjoyed is worth it.
So while she seeks out words that bare the bones,
I’ll stay and make a meal of the marrow,
hollowing them so that the poetry may have a rightful place
to reverberate as hymns in a universal monastery.

But hell, like I’m any old soul.
I dress nicer than I otherwise would,
turn to the mother who told me I don’t meet her lowest standards,
and ask for a critique.
All for the moment when she greets me at the door with a legendary G#.

...Now please, could you spare a dime?

I think it’s funny that
After faking your emotions
For so long, you lose track
Of what’s real and what’s not.
When you’ve been pretending to be happy
For so long, and suddenly
Those feelings become real,
Who are you to know?
Why shouldn’t the feelings
Be just another act that
Your brain hasn’t caught on to yet,
But that your heart remembers
Word for word.
Sometimes when you fake it
Till you make it, and you make it,
You don’t even believe your emotions.
But even though
It’s okay to not be okay,
It’s also okay to be okay.
Remember that.

i don't know when it was but one day, my apartment began to grow
cardboard boxes. they came from

nowhere
and
everywhere

all at once-- a silent
invasion, i felt a faint ache in the back of my neck but
alas, what could i do? i allowed it to
continue.

now as i sit amidst the cardboard boxes, and hear their
rich conversations
and articulate speech, i cannot help but realize that the apartment is a stage. and the boxes have more stage presence than i have ever had. and suddenly i am the most pathetic, lowly actor on this cardboard stage of cardboard boxes and i wonder to myself, where did i go wrong?

The final call
Breathe,
Slow and gentle,
Like your trying to make a candle flicker,
The darkness shifts shapes,
In and out,
(how else would you breath?
Up down?),
Smile,
Practice your face,
Carefully control each muscles contraction,
Tightening,
To create a (forced) relaxed face,
You spiral your hair around your finger,
Wind and unwind,
Twist your fingers around each other,
Tangle into bending shapes,
Stop,
Smile,
Just be normal for five ******* minutes.

Curtains up
The act has started,
No mistakes,
The shell must be maintained,
No cracks,
‘I’m fine’ (I’m breaking),
‘everything is great’ (everything hurts),
‘I will be okay’ (I want to die),
Look carefree,
Sylphlike.
Your cracking,
Your (pretending to be) tall,
Holding the space,
The room,
As much as your (small) body can,
Your actions exaggerated,
Slowed,
They see only (the fake) you.

Curtains fall
Just in time.
They cant know,
No muscles in your face contract,
This is you,
Dead eyed, dejected you,
The candle has blown out,
Smoke rises from the wick,
Curling,
Choking you,
Until you convulse,
Until your reflection shatters,
Lines cut through you,
The pieces fall on to the floor,
And you are empty.

Black,
Bleak,
A shadow.

Curtain call

everyone's soul
has that one space,
that one territory
where it unquestionably
undeniably
belongs.

mine is simply the stage.
nothing can stir my heart
quite like the way
the warmth of the stage lights
the scent of paint and sawdust
the rustle of velvet curtains
the rolling murmur of the audience
the firmness of the stage, tacky with masking tape
can.

i was made for the stage.
only there am i certain.
missteps? mistakes? you ask
i laugh, a private laugh.
no, i reply. improv. adaptability.
no matter if my tongue, if my foot, if my face slips
i am standing on a stage.
this is my territory.

you would do best
to not challenge
underestimate
my power
when
i
stand
on my stage.

pretty boy get off the stage
the show is over
it's been done and played
take off that mask and be yourself
and stop trying to be like everybody else
nobody is waiting for an encore
so why are you?
step out of character and be the you we all desire
why are you refusing?
because the stage is comfortable?
well, pretty boy, the world is not a stage
the world is streets and aisles where the acting doesn't count
nobody wants to be around a facade
people want genuine emotions and reactions
and the character you chose is not you

so pretty boy its time
take off the costume
and step into your own shoes
don't let how you think you need to be seen
decide how you act
go with your instinct
and pretty boy just be you