“I would love a poem about theatricality in daily life. I’ve been thinking
about this topic for a while, I would love to hear a poetic take on it :D.”

The rehearsals of childhood,
repeated, practiced, restructured,
and engraved onto our blank brains.

Our roles are like ropes
which we pull for guidance
and wiggle for fun.

We mold our meat

for our roles,
for what we ought to be.

And the more we act,
the more we see the truths.
Rapturous nature, calming deaths, frivolous passions.

When the moon glows hot during showtime
and our eyes strain to see
what is real or upstaged reality,
we see the real stage.

The podium of stars and trees-
ever changing to fit the actors
who change costumes to fit the weather,
like delicate dreams that shift at night.

It’s these days of overturned acting
that make the moon grow anxious
and the sun takes us backstage again
to find our moldy scripts.