We live out our lives in preformance. 

 

Time and effort into this work, 

the make-up, 

the clothes, 

the words. 

 

All for this moment, 

the pull of the curtain, 

the audiences' acceptance,

the possibility of employment.

 

On stage we are cohesive waves,

smooth transition from line-to-line,

movement-to-movement,

we are the show's slaves.  

 

The show is over, 

roses are thrown, 

applause shakes the ground, 

We hold puppet's composure. 

 

We play characters every day,

The motherly role, 

The masculine father, 

The every day mundane. 

 

What happens when there's a change in the script?

When war forces mother to be a provider, 

A father fights for a cause outside their home, 

When the norms contradict?

 

What happens when fighters come home, 

And the mind is split into two, 

Who I was and Who I am, 

But who I am is unknown. 

 

What happens when a woman needs to rise, 

Twice the effort, 

not even equal pay, 

Let me sell my beauty to survive. 

 

What happens to the English student, 

Who chooses words over obscenities, 

Enlightment over wealthy gain, 

To be pop-culture's amusement. 

 

How is it fair? 

When we must become a character, 

In order to survive the game called life, 

When what is right and justified is only a tragic love affair. 

 

As a writer I can only contribute gain, 

Writing what should be, to lessen the insane, 

To have literature once again prominent, 

No more of this social media drain. 

 

I can only do this through education, 

The underpaid teachers, 

The poets and writers yet to be discovered, 

To influence my every day, creating direction. 

 

I want to end this internal war, 

woman against woman, 

displaced glorification, 

Not to be a victim of society anymore. 

 

I refuse to play a character.