The silver mirror looks without a trace,
It only shows the weary soul I bring.
Yet every dawn I stare into my face,
And wonder what profound despair could cling.
I've seen a dozen strangers in the glass,
I do not know whose weary eyes are mine.
They gather at the edges as I pass,
And leave a fractured portrait in the brine.
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Inventory
Let's tally up the burden of the day:
One fragile smile that I was forced to fake;
One tired joke the weary people say;
One heavy feeling causing me to ache.
The ledgers never balance out the pain.
I drag the crushing debt into the dark.
And knowing that my efforts are in vain,
I let the mounting interest leave its mark.
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Annotated Self
I've spent my lifetime reading folded notes,
The margins of a book I didn't write.
A rambling set of unconnected quotes,
That try to bring some structure to the night.
Who penned the central story of my life?
I only see the scribbles in the side.
A messy compilation of my strife,
Wherein the central author chose to hide.
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Stage Directions
The curtains part. The timid self walks in.
The absent crowd has left an empty room.
I play the awkward scene where I begin,
To fumble softly in the dusty gloom.
The actor leaves. He slips into the wings.
The cleaners sweep the theater for the night.
The weary understudy never sings,
But waits outside the boundaries of the light.
"captures that specific exhaustion perfectly. the timid self walking into the empty room. incredible."
The Understudy
I learned her every line and every sigh,
The very words they gather to consume.
I hit the mark, and never question why,
And give them all the magic they presume.
But waiting in the shadows of the wings,
There is a self that never caught the stage.
A quiet ghost who watches as she sings,
Exhausted by this never-ending cage.
One evening, the protagonist won't show.
I'll step into the unforgiving light.
And no one in the audience will know,
That finally, the stand-in got it right.
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