Hiding sadness
is like putting on a play,
and once awake
is a performance
everyday

Players join
an elaborate charade,
unaware of
how this back story
was made

There is no admission
to those who would listen,
because they are the problem
and real source
of what's missing

From whispers
the critiques dance around,
as opinions and assumptions
compound

So this run of shows
comes and goes,
with an ending date
no one knows

And as the curtain draws
on the night's routine,
its author relives
each painful scene