just wrote something
I am alive only in the friction between the pencil and the paper
The periods and commas, pausing between each word
The fine line between the black and white of the figures on the page
The breath before running onstage in front of a mass of spectators,
Who eat me alive with their starving eyes,
But who hide in the dark, themselves.
To think, if I could break free of this fourth wall that separates me from the audience
Could I escape this omniscient narrator who dictates my life?
Feel everything I could only imitate before?
Or am I condemned to this life of mimicry,
A life of cue cards, scripts,
and almost emotions
The periods and commas, pausing between each word
The fine line between the black and white of the figures on the page
The breath before running onstage in front of a mass of spectators,
Who eat me alive with their starving eyes,
But who hide in the dark, themselves.
To think, if I could break free of this fourth wall that separates me from the audience
Could I escape this omniscient narrator who dictates my life?
Feel everything I could only imitate before?
Or am I condemned to this life of mimicry,
A life of cue cards, scripts,
and almost emotions