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Faye 7d
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 29
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 11
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 15
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 2
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 25
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
Tommy Randell Nov 2020
You want jazz music?
Go look in your sock drawer
Where your socks are rainbows
And the harmonics bizarre.

You want to get there in style?
Always leave in the wrong direction -
You've forever been fashionably late
Why make this day an exception?

The lights outside the theatre are red,
The floods on the stage are blue,
Act1 Scene1 you are sentenced to death -
The only one in denial is you.

An incautious dose of the Truth,
A self administered reality,
Was it Jazz you wanted or Fusion?
Either way Act2 ends in a fatality.

The skills in your resume are great
And yes improv is where theatre is at,
But one man can't do Beckett & Godot -
Irony is when death gets the laughs.

There is not always time yet it is time
To walk down-stage into their faces,
Tell them as an aside
Your word is as good as your braces -

It has taken a lifetime to get here.
It needed courage and no little persuading.
The choice of odd socks was crucial -
Act3 will result in more waiting.

Three dots is an ellipsis
Often marked with an arch of one eye -
When more has been said than done
Rhetoric is as good as a sigh -

Whatever you thought you were waiting for
Is not going to happen in this Life ...
Johnson Oyeniran Sep 2020
You are a nova in the thick midst of mediocrity
Detoxing hollywood's formulaic Poison,
By Feeding me fruits of originality;
A breath of new air, missing from
Incompetent directors, who sacrifice
Quality on the altar of money.

Free from blemish,
Pure in talent,
Clothed in consistency,
The bitter voices of critics
Remain silent from the gutter.

You sealed my depression;
Binding him to the lowest dungeon in my subconscious,
Depriving him of my pessimism which he feast on, when you
Pulled me into your gentle arms
With your metal wings of comfort.

You danced through each scene,
Moving us deeply
With your raw performance
Pointless to be mimic.

Cyborg from the skies,
The box office has found favor
With you!
Your screening still stands
Victorious amongst a sea of
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