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Stxlle 1d
She felt like the luckiest girl in the world
You made her feel special
You made her feel loved
You made her feel like every girl
you were ever with

You weren't gonna fool her
She knew

She knew
You play the same act over and over again
She knew what you were
She's seen your script
She knew your lines
Scene after scene
She knew you'd deliver a perfect

She already knew how your play will end
She could walk off the stage right now

Yet, she wondered
if it would end differently
for her
Boys like you - dodie
Margot Apr 6
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
This poem I dedicated to a local theater actor Julian. During one of his plays I thought of this fictional plot. Thank you for reading!
A Psalmist Mar 15
When you remember in your dreams
making poems and rhymes
then you can rest assured
that poetry is in your heart.
I woke up remembering a dream of putting on a 1 man theatrical performance and getting 3 songs deep into Act 1. Hoping Act 2 comes tonight.
Mark Rohlf Mar 7
a medley of mange
this group of misfits
laughing dancing
and grazing the strange

unconventional freaks
outlandish and odd
parroting our priests
and glib of our gods

mocking our trials
poking fun of our kings
curating our flaws
as they jump and sing

bent and dimented
indignant to drones
lippy and pert
these rolling stones

theater people
I'm working on a painting of the title, Theater People. This collection of words will accompany the painting.
Arisa Mar 3
I ****** the stage with silence so the audience anticipates the articulation of words that soon spill out of my mouth.

The show lights blind my eyes so all I can see are headless ghosts sitting in rows, neatly compact in a spiritual communion.

My mind stutters, body shudders, yet the line is plain to see as it was painted on my lips - ready to perform, ready to be spoken.

Narration courses through my lungs to produce cornered speech, creating an introductory-zone for the others to encroach behind me

And there we were, separated into our own character beams while I stood with shallow confidence at the forefront.

Though I'm not a main lead,
or a side character,
or a set piece,
I am the narrator.
I carry the weight of the story,
And I carry the ears of those who listen.
I was never an expressive actor, but the small roles I was given at school plays  and home-brewed sketches I was grateful for.
true faith is rare
how lucky am i to have found it already
though to me, it is not a man on a crucifix
but belief that the sun will rise again in the morning
that love conquers all
that things will be how they are meant to be
belief in yourself
belief in others
when friends become family
that’s only because you have so much faith in eachother
that the word “friend” couldn’t have the power to contain it
Over Dec 2018
Confined within for seventeen never-ending years
Greeted every morning by its hollow disgusting sneer
Cutting fingers trying to peel off the layers of this theater
Getting stabbed and kicked in the head again, death is near

Another day, lost in the space
Feeling more and more alien
Piercing the days like a warrior
Have my head cut off a thousand times
Another day, losing my own face
Smells more and more my carrion
Peering through this barrier
Have my body buried a thousand miles down the earth

Existence does not mean belongingness
Dedicated to Per "Dead" Ohlin
Dante Algheri Nov 2018
We are all racing birds;
we win just to be caged.
I don't know if you've heard,
but all the world's a stage.

I tread the rigid boards
and bend myself instead.
Another curtain call;
another ego fed.

The limelight comes and fades;
the sweat falls from my brow
now everybody cheers,
another perfect show.

You will never make it,
you know that this is true.
The flowers on this stage
will die along with you.
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