Method Acting

I wear my costume

(button-down shirt

khaki pants,

knock-off Sperrys).



I learn my lines

(the vagaries of adult parlance,

the crude jargon of my peers,

the neatly trimmed Twitter posts)



Every day at school

I perfect my blocking,

knowing the minutes and seconds

between each class.



It took a while to memorize my part

stumbling over lines,

missing entrances

and exits, but

as the years drug on

I mastered my craft

and perfectly played the character

of my angst-filled self.



I became

a method actor of sorts,

so engrossed in my work

I forgot I was but a performer

and lost track of my true self.



I took off my mask

only in times of intense weakness

(a lost lover or an ill-fated friendship)

or acute strength.



People fell in love

with “Brett”

but never knew the me I saw before bed each night

(vulnerable and enthusiastic,

a book fanatic,

a superfan of StarTrek/C-Span/SonicScrewdrivers/SantaClaraVanguard)



As the years wore on, I kept the mask in place

for weeks, then months

never wavering, never faltering

never letting the curtain close,

safer somehow in my 24/7 performance

until finally diplomas were handed out and I stepped across the stage.

Then the glare of the house lights found me

naked and alone,

waiting for an ovation that will never come

until I embrace my authentic self.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741