The heaviest sound lays us to rest
Tied to the steak and eats our heart out
Composure fixed to the evening sky
Swivel the scenery then throw me away when I am colored dead
Let's all pose then fall down the well together
Understudies for the part we weren't meant to play
Courage for cowards in the rewriter's chair beating the around the rose bush
Sink thirty thousand feet into the shoes too narrow for human feats.
Back to factory settings until you can learn how to sing let alone speak our names
Caution tape leashes the struggle bus in gear on your best days
One step further than slipping up on a Monday, blue and battered
I wake up to the sight of the out of boundaries shred to pieces
Water for the pills stuck in swallowing fashion
Wings tied to the bed abstract as ever
We dreamt of the rise and fall of the house of us
Blueprints of further disappointment with marble inlays to hold onto this moment
Shock jocks of jealous siblings gnashing at ankles going home
Nostalgic for chaos and that bitter root
I didn't know that I was this obvious
Innocence donated with and without the will to live
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
No more waiting for a cue,
I step into the spotlight, the script unwritten but mine, the hero of my own unfolding story.
The plot twists are mine to navigate, the victories mine to celebrate. When doubt knocks, I answer with courage; when fear whispers, I roar with resolve. My story is vibrant, raw, and relentlessly mine.
So watch me rise, watch me write, watch me live fully—because this is my tale, told boldly and beautifully, every step a declaration: I am the main character of my life.
I hold the pen; I craft the narrative that defines who I am.
I make is a verse in my poem, every step a line in my script. The plot twists? I write them
This story is mine to own—no extras, no understudies. I speak loud, act bold, and live with purpose because being the main character means walking forward with courage, carving my path with confidence.
I am more than just a player in life’s theater—I am the author, director, and hero all at once. This is my story, and I’m ready to live it fiercely, unapologetically, and authentically.
Barely old enough to be in this place
Urban-savvy, aware, not overly friendly
Reasonably pretty, ravishing in some ways
Life has given her hard choices
Enthusiastic in the chorus line
She would love to be the headliner
Queen Dee would have much to say about this
Understudies here have horrible accidents
Expect no one to be honest about this
‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.’
(As You Like It, Act 2, Scene 7)
By Shakespeare
If this is so
I hope it’s
more than
one act.
What of us
who are mere
understudies
or stage hands?
I don’t remember
rehearsing for
any parts-do you?
My entrance
wasn’t so grand
my exit probably
won’t be either.
Hope I don’t
fall off the stage
and I know I don’t
want any singing parts.
What if I get
Stage fright?
does that mean
I don’t get to act?
Is this Broadway
or off Broadway?
Is it local theater?
Whatever type
I hope I can win
a Tony!
Mini mangy monster Marvin moo
Nearly never noticed anything new
Outrageously outgoing onset overdue
Plunking his plush posterior on a pew
Quizzically questioning Curly-Q
Respecting ruffians Brew, Grue and Rue.
Shimmying and shaking shivering Sue and Stew
Teaching talented Tommy Treachery too
Uniting understudies under the letter U
Vaporizing validation veering into valley view
Welcoming wild werewolf wearing blue.
harbingers of hope
heavenly understudies
waiting in the wings
4/3/2016
submitted to – Senryu on Angels – Poetry Contest
sponsor – Marvin Celestial
Every poem has a story,
camouflaged, primped, made up and dressed to the hilt;
fill ins, understudies and leads,
are rehearsed, played, acted out and filmed.
Within the start all life is openly displayed
by the first impassioned kiss of young lovers,
the bold defiant attitude of teenagers, young adults
with secrets, lies, and crushes of hormonal desires.
In maturity, two lovers are torn from selfishness
to promise, trust and vow a never ending bond of love,
then brings forth new born babes and their first words,
first steps, endless chatter, that first independent “no”.
Life begins again and moves forward
as all the experiences and stories swell
with uncontained joy and laughter yet to tell.
Years press on too quickly in fast forward time
and everyone grows to relay the play on words
of how life was lived and came to be known.
Every poem speaks out the history
of life and love, its dreams and hopes,
its trials and tribulations, its tears and loss
revealed in the poets harmony.
AFTER HOURS
Dudes in duds broken down brims
cocked and bent creases in trousers
when thugs were gents
People with attitude women too
demeanor and outfits like
Ebony's front pages
Dudes in duds broken down brims
Money on backs eyes watching
the eye's of watchers
Entrances and exits.
Wink or nod jazz in smoky
rooms groomed and manicured.
sashay across the room stepping off in
Bally's shoes shined no scuff
after hours.
high profile.. Dudes in duds
broken down brims.
Men creating temporary illusions
Clean to the bone
deliberate sashay tempo exaggerated
tempting and teasing pleasing the eye
karat's on fingers scents linger
Exquisite cologne clean to the bone
faded edges -role playing no script
Dudes in duds
Broken down brims cocked and bent.
Attitude in threads
We wait to be called in that back room
Where they'd spit "Gangsta Wit".
before videos
Was dudes in duds with sweet tongues
making their points in after hour joints.
Live and direct we upstarts
learning our parts we'd sit
internalizing gangsta wit
like understudies to a movie script
In after hours joints........... delighted...
Tomorrow will be too late to pen the imminent
Hold onto the moment and sketch the future
Backdrops must be moved for change
Leads and understudies pass by or fade
Wrest the quill from the bottle, seize your moment…
Inscribe your spirits voice on the parchment
Paint the portrait of classicism and of the didactic
Purify your finiteness in the cooling tarns of risk
Capture and grasp the blinding flash of excitement
Forever on times passage do all dreams disperse…
Discover within you the voice of each tomorrow
Rend its youthful divinity upon your scattered pages
Develop the undying fervor to discover all that is new
Explore all that you fear dwelling silent within your scope
Compose on high the muse your heart cries out for…
Never recognize the qualms to enact your fantasies
For the future will become more vivid in the lens of truth
Tomorrow will be too late to pen the imminent
In each moment expired it draws ever closer to you
Enveloping even dreams before you can realize and react...
Wrapped in shattered wings of failure,
remorsefully, begging second chances
from the crowd of mannequins; Judgement of silence.
Feeling, this searing breath of mortality
sweep away accolades and critical acclaim.
Slipping from the satin pedestal,
perched upon broken egos.
Tearing the cloth as you cling, grimly, to the pinnacle,
as all the time understudies wait
to steal the lines from your lips.
Buried secrets erupt from the closed casket,
Still kicking, screaming, with life.
Gutter press headlines, while “Variety” keeps
a dignified silence. Perimeter of courtiers
still bolster fragile façade, even as they kiss and tell.
Dressed in skin, washed to many times.
Do you pray for endless Sundays?
Now as you enter saffron sunsets; How you have fallen.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.