~Esther Mitchell, 2014~
It’s all a long procession,
Of masks, and lines, and parts,
Emoting in stasis, like a grinning puppet,
Of a circus that long ago frightened off childhood,
And replaced it with this writhing, frenzied beast,
Determined to rip me apart, starting on the inside.
My value was bought and sold,
Not in bags of silver,
But in pennies,
Tossed in a street full of runaway horses,
While others stood on the sidelines and laughed,
As I scrambled to hold my sinking life together,
My torment turned into a spectator sport,
In which your commentary matters more to you,
Than my living the experience ever will.
I am a marionette in the hands of the masses,
The tattered old Punch who’s taken too many beatings,
And still the audience demands to be entertained,
Amused by my plight,
Made to feel important by my misery,
As if my life was just a part I play,
To be shelved when the lights dim,
Washed away like a grease painted mask,
And forgotten until I’m next called on to entertain.
But this theatre you see,
Goes to the very core of my being,
It is my life, everything that I am,
Laid open, bare, and bleeding,
I’m not asking for much in exchange,
But to not be treated like a source of your entertainment.