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"ONE IN THREE WOMEN ARE VICTIMS OF ****** ASSAULT." They say.
I am sat. Awestruck.
"LOOK TO YOUR LEFT AND LOOK TO YOUR RIGHT. ONE OF YOU IS A VICTIM OF ****** ASSAULT."
I look to the woman on my left.
I look to the woman on my right.
I look to the front.
Avoid any eye contact.
Keep a straight face.
Don't give anything away.
How dare they out me like this?
The woman to my left knows that she hasn't.
The woman to my right knows that she hasn't.
That leaves me.
Raw and exposed.
I did not give consent for this to be shared.
This was my secret.
My ***** little secret that I do not want to have but I do despite.
Did they plan this?
They must have known.
There must be a seating plan somewhere.
Someone did some digging around.
But how?
I told no one.
This was my secret.
My ***** little secret that I do not want to have but do despite.
Anger creeps up inside.
Avoid any eye contact.
Keep a straight face.
Don't give anything away.
Pain.
I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and I squeeze.
Blood is drawn.
I look down at my hand.
The woman on my left does the same.
Cover it quick.
I look forward.
They are still talking.
I process nothing.
Avoid any eye contact.
Keep a straight face.
Don't give anything away.
They are still talking.
Focus.
Concentrate.
What are they saying?
Finally I tune back in to their closing line,
Reiterating their first point:
"ONE IN THREE WOMEN ARE VICTIMS OF ****** ASSAULT."
I watched Prima Facie tonight and it really touched me. This is my raw response to the play.
lucid Jun 20
So the play is over
After running for a year.
We had our ups and downs,
Our ins and outs,
Our highs and lows...
But that wasn't enough to keep on
Any longer.
You put on a smile and
Played your part convincingly.
I guess you really are a theater kid,
Because you made it feel so real.

I can't trace back the jagged timeline,
No matter how hard I try.
The acts all blur together -
There is no true beginning or end.
The only thing tangible and real
Is the pain,
And the scar you left behind.
To me, it's a severed ventricle
That will never heal.
To you, it's a stained napkin
To toss in the trash as you walk by.

Maybe method acting my role
Was the wrong approach.
My script told me to be your *****,
Be your angel,
Be your therapist,
But I just wanted to be your love.
I was never able to be
The perfect ***** that you wanted.
The kind of girl who
Actually stayed a girl.
I tricked myself into thinking
That I was finally good enough for someone.
I stared into the mirror
Until I convinced myself that
I was a beautiful monster.

"And I will always love you."
You listen to Dolly's when your heart is breaking,
And to Whitney's when you're ready to move on.
Some of us, however,
Stay stuck in limbo.
I can't push against the dusk
And get to the morning
If I can never trust again.
You built a city of lies
At my feet,
And the walls have yet to crumble.

And so, we take a bow
To our friends and family.
We exit, gripping a bouquet
Of dry and tattered roses.
You've taken the liberty
To give up and leave.
You're shedding the burden,
Peeling off the old, crusty skin.
I wasn't worth the trouble and effort
I suppose.

I want to leave too,
But all the world will be the same stage.
I can't give up and leave
Unless I give up on the world itself.
Zywa Apr 2
I never played Hamlet,

I was just the performer --


who was playing him.
"Het theater, de brief en de waarheid" ("The theatre, the letter and the truth", 2000, Harry Mulisch)

Collection "Held True"
Faye Sep 2021
144
I don’t want to cut myself open on a stage,
Make my blood curdle on command.
Applaud me, will you?
This idea of sisterhood, this union
At the end of the play
One lives, one dies, and one has the glory
of letting the curtain fall down
Down on the story
Performed to move people.

I’m not a performer,
Not a thespian, actress or Janus,
I have the one face and that’s all I’ve got,
Like it or not.
My clothes are not a costume,
There’s no cue for me
That tells when to go on.
I speak now, with lines rehearsed
To keep playing the fool
The one no-one listens to.

Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Do you like me?
Please applaud.

I am not an act, waiting for an audience.
I do not respond to applause,
There’s no curtain call,
No stage light in my place
That tells me where to fall.

I can’t keep playing
Can’t keep pretending
I’m the one who decides to walk out
On all of this, now.
It’s the final call, that one last bow
And thus ends the show,
See you next week, with all your friends in tow.

A standing ovation,
A brief revelation
I don’t want this, quick,
Act like it’s all part of it,
Stumbling’s funny, err on the side of performance,
Don’t reveal the truth, don’t bleed on the stage floor,
It’s all fake. All pretend, I’m no actor,
but I perform every minute of the day.
I’m not sure my heart’s real.
Harley Hucof Apr 2021
Life is all entertainment , just like a psychedelic theater, our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation.
I roam in and out my worldless kingdom
Freedom's reserved for the wild and untamed.
For who cares to know, we could fly our way out as falcons , or swim our way in as whales. It will never really matter because it's all entertainment , while we patiently wait for the emanations.
Expectations emerge from preconceived notions and blocks the transmissions entitled to all sentient beings.
Like a collective prophet and a magnet , we learn to filter the commands to percieve the matrix. Finally to redefine and recreate a convenient  path that is real.
Our thoughts and breath whisper reality into creation, i chose my fun as transmutation, life is recreational.


Words Of Harfouchism
Bella Apr 2021
It was silent, but not dead of night
The sun still out, setting in the sky
But the stage was empty, it was really a sight
There were no performers, not wanting to die

They're all alone trapped in their dressing room
Costumes hung high on their shelves
There were no flowers, but it bloomed like a sweet perfume
Spreading through the theatre, only by oneself

There was no laughter, no clapping at the end
There was no intermission, just act after act
It greeted them all, like an old friend
The catastrophe wasn’t beautiful, but it was abstract

The theatre was empty, but everyone knows
The tragedy wasn’t over, the show didn’t close
Aged, wrinkled and worn
Our Palms of fortune and destiny
Show tracks leading to new places
Playing out the timeline of our lives
Like a show - a Chorus Line
The queues will flock for the matinee
And so this poetical line ends.
A poem on the theme of 'Lines'
© Joshua Reece Wylie
Yasamen Feb 2021
it's a calm summer night
the clouds parted like a main drape
the scene set


here I am waiting
I've wanted it all to turn out fine


but the stars never seem to be falling for me
maybe it's because
everything else seems to be falling around me



here I am,
screaming, kicking, throwing stones upwards
hoping they will shine when falling back down



but the show takes place on this side of the drape tonight
Hey there, I long for some constructive criticism.
xjf Feb 2021
I am
theatre bred
I am
poet born
I will not tread lightly
I will blow my horn
I will make practice
of practice
Till every act is
that of mastery
I will steal history
for so long
that it will linger upon
me. For centuries
Anemone Jan 2021
Curtains may fall
And people may go
But the ghost light’s
All I know

People may shout
And prance around the stage
But the ghost light
Will never age

See them laugh
see them cry
And get more for the encore
When next they arrive

See them live
See them die
And get scored for the next chord
When next they survive

I watch over their theatre with pride
But don't think for a minute that I’m on their side

Why do they call me a ghost?
When I am surely alive
Don't tell me I'm wrong
Surely I survive

When singers are done with their long songs
When dancers will find no more dances, they're wrong
And I will stand here in the dark all alone
In this theatre, I call my home

So I find I'm more than this
More than your people have taught me to be
If you fear a shadow behind you
That of course
Is me
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