The little boy next door knows I play a joker
Under a veneer of white and red,
With a queer Glasgow grin, that masks
The face he hardly ever sees.
An artist is born to create art that he covets,
And I impersonate this art
That resides in his soul, through his eyes –
For a living.
They know me for my skills
To play the inadvertent actions of the day,
To pretend it happens to me in the same ways
And be a person that I may never be.
The stage under the limelight is a mirage
That lures but never provides –
And surreal as it may seem outwardly –
It is but a room for one’s own.
They’ll remember me as a persona
In the psyche I performed, but wasn’t born into –
I’m that obscure spot on a linen fabric,
That will wash away unnoticed.
I thrive on a distant identity;
But what’s in a name they say –
Yet, I long for an answer to
Who I could be, beyond the actor I chose to be.
A selfhood that I seeked every night
And keep seeking still.