The lies we tell, the smiles we sell.

A chasm deep, dark, dangerous
floats with abandon amidst an
act which appears so real it causes
the art of acting to blush – adorned
with a bleeding, glowing flush:
The curtains never fall for they
never did rise, yet the raging rush
ever present, ever potent never pauses
in its pursuit of putting up a front
glistening with light and laughter, lush
like the first fruits of spring – beyond glorious
the way they bloom in the wake of
mourning brutal, indescribable losses –
The act we excel at sans any effort,
the act we keep up come noise or hush,
the act we survive on, thrive on, sacrifice for
until its limbs are so intertwined with
those of reality, dancing in eerie harmony,
that it ceases to be an act, until the face
we see in the mirror is but a mirage
of our true self, a facade in the race
to prevent the truth from ever breaking
through the surface of the ocean of lies,
until the honest, loyal, inherent voices
get buried in our throats, overpowered
by fake smiles masking the sighs
so brilliantly no one can discern the joke
being enacted in collective complicity:
Ah, the lies we tell, the smiles we sell
with such grace that there remains no trace
of the grieving graves of the wounds
we hide – the blood yearning to well
up from the walls of the cage guarded
by many a lock, onerous to unlock,
pleading to escape the haunting hell
where almost every one responds to false mirth
but to no avail is a truthful, painful yell!
No drama schools, no acting classes
decorate the shelves of our souls’ glasses,
but, oh how we perform every single
ballad, stage the most difficult of plays,
recite tales of hope to everyone’s shock,
dance through hurricanes which mock
the lack of sincerity, reality, and finality
in our performances so strong yet fragile
as to be believable and incredible in equal
measure, so well practised yet so amateur
as to be lauded and censured in the same breath,
so transparent yet so glaringly contrived
as to simultaneously arouse disgust and pity –
But this pity cannot possibly be greater
than the one we feel towards ourselves
when we realise we are no better than a traitor
trading their soul for a place in the theatre
which never runs out of shows, chasing
a hollow dream, seeking acknowledgement,
acceptance, and induction in a club
where every one is a vessel for a bubble
of denial and delusion which has no ending –
the pity we experience when we lie
to the mirror, sell a smile to the rubble
of our sorrow, cheating it of its right
to trouble
us, robbing it of its might to incite
agony, anger, and fear, but what for
is this act, why do we succumb to this treachery?!
Are we so afraid to greet our demons
like old pals that we would rather pretend
that they do no exist at all, let alone in legions?!
Is the pull of belonging to an ever happy
group in a factitious picture so insurmountable
as to compel us to live in denial of the reasons
which make us vulnerable, which make us human?!
Maybe there are no unique answers to questions
this complex, but there are answers for each
of us if we can make peace with the night,
recognising it is as worthy as the light
following in its wake, understanding
that tears and fears are as much a part
of who we are as laughter and courage,
accepting that vulnerability is not a fault
but a virtue, one that lends us strength,
celebrating the chinks in our armours as
friends who never depart even when the fabric
of happiness surrenders to unforgiving weather,
rejoicing in the company of reality, solitude,
hopelessness, hopefulness with gratitude
at being able to feel, see, hear, express
the emotions, the scenes, the voices, the fears
the world would prefer to stifle with its claws.
Ah, the lies we tell, the smiles we sell
have a price, one which we end up paying
with that which is too precious to spend,
the scars of this ceaseless act are
difficult to mend:
It is easier to be real than it is to pretend
for the mirrors inside our souls can discern
the real from the forged despite their skilful blend.