Catharsis of Clown

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Poem inspired by Iron Maiden's Tears of a Clown. Written for the contest by Robert James Liguori.

Since I first put on the greasepaint, smooth as cream on morning toast, they said I had a gift for making people laugh. Natural as breathing. Effortless as falling. Born to perform like a bird in flight. So I've kept that image, polished it like brass until it gleamed.

beneath the painted face
real tears flow like hidden streams
the clown weeps alone

I didn't let them down. Not once. Jokes landed like perfectly thrown darts, pratfalls executed precisely as sharp as a surgeon's blade, balloon animals twisted just right, supple as young willow branches. No frowns, no tears showing through, just painted smiles fixed like porcelain and "Yes, I'll make you laugh." "Yes, I'll be your joy."

red nose like sunset
hides the gray dawn of sorrow
laughter echoes, fades

I built a persona that made audiences roar like thunder with delight. Slowly, as quietly as fog was rolling in, I forgot to ask myself, "Are you laughing too?" Well, I guess I am. I've brought happiness to thousands, scattered like seeds in fertile ground. But looking back now, I feel a deep sadness creeping in like winter's chill.

applause rises high
while inside, something crumbles
silence behind smiles

Every standing ovation feels like a silent contract, binding as steel chains. Every bout of laughter from the crowd falls like stones, disregarding the possibility that I could be crying inside. The applause has become a cage, bars invisible as air but strong as iron.

painted mask cracks slowly
revealing the man beneath
no one wants to see

It's like my real face, the one that frowns like storm clouds, fears like a child in the dark, and feels like raw nerves exposed, never got to be seen because a painted one was always there, constant as the North Star, always expected, always demanded.

mirror shows a stranger
wearing my reflection's skin
which one is real now?

I chose this red nose round as a cherry, this colourful wig wild as autumn leaves, and these oversized shoes like boats on my feet. I should bear their weight with pride. But as time passes by, steady as a river's flow, they grow heavier, each prop becoming an anchor that drags me deeper into character and further from myself.

costume grows heavy
like armour rusted with tears
the jester's burden

Now that I'm older, the makeup feels less like art and more like armour I can't remove, welded to my skin. I wish to live without it. To feel emotions without immediately translating them into slapstick. To cry without turning my tears into the setup for a punchline. To rest without the guilt that somewhere, someone needs to laugh. To simply be human without having to perform humanity first.

dawn breaks, paint remains
wishing for naked sunlight
on my true face

But here's the cruel irony, sharp as a knife's edge: after years behind the paint, I wonder if I still know how. With a heart that's learned to break in private like glass in velvet, a mind that automatically juggles sorrows into entertainment like a reflex beyond control, and hands that tremble like autumn leaves without props to hold, can I ever just be me?

empty hands tremble
searching for something to hold
besides false laughter

Is it even possible to find my way back to the person I was before the first laugh rang out like a bell, before the first show opened like a flower, before I became everyone's joy but my own?

lost in the funhouse
seeking the exit mirror
which reflects the truth?

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