The mistake of being chosen,
When you aim for playing by spite,
In a game that’s both black and light,
Surely links to the parts of life
When one acts like a heated knife,
But the butter is not frozen.
Another untrained viewer’s eye,
Randomly passing near the scene,
A strange inkling to intervene
Might gently cross his stream of thought;
Possibly messing up a lot.
The watcher doesn’t get to try.
The spiteful actor battles much,
All faces turn to judge his moves.
His features fidget, they amuse.
He sends his words out into meaning,
Their loud silence sees no clinging
To ears that eat his kind for lunch.
He is alone on stage and nothing helps his mind.
The role he has is hard, some lines are forgotten;
Changes made from frame to frame seem all too sudden.
He is lost and feeble and under the spotlight
Wishing that, at casting, his acting wasn’t bright.
Strangely he feels himself as being mute and blind.
Bit under construction, this feature of existence
Can get you into places without any escapes
And it makes you face your nightmares’ gruesome theater drapes,
Which normally you threat so, because they always hide
An audience unfriendly and just so full of pride,
That boos off life’s stage the ones without experience.