Time to play, pretend, acting as if your soul has no grime,
smile, back-slap, swap them: the pleasantries, they’re a dime.
Entering church, game on, gotta do this. Smile and nod, friend;
get finished, shake, side-hug, move, almost there, almost. The end.
Did it. Nobody asked, nobody knew. I kept it up and feigned on through.
They didn’t care about it and neither did I…I, well kind of, but who
would even care if I told them? I accept the play, the game, the untrue.
The land of make believe, Holy-wood hills, I get it but hate it.
I slide through it, never noticed, never pressured. Reckless fidget,
wondering, do they know, will they ask, will they pervade and push
right in to me, my life, my thoughts, the real me, the one I wish
they’d care some more about? Can they handle the truth I can’t take?
Hard exterior, nothing inside, at least you won’t find out, it’s mine. Wait,
someone approaches, smile, wipe that brow. Take two…action! One last try,
and I do, again, not a clue. And the Oscar goes to …about to die.
It’s hard to breathe when you’re plastic, I must break out, let loose, live.
Reality beckons me and it’s what I want, truth, ugly truth, for that I’d give
all of this up, everything. Shallow suffering and fantasy, please, stay in your place,
don’t invade life with the fake. But you persist, and how I wish for just a taste
of the real, the life, edgy and uncut, but what exists?…nothing, blank rounds of smiles.
It’s alright. It’s alright. I’ve done this…I can maneuver my way through the aisles.
No! It can’t be this way, I need to find the real, behind the façade, the phony
person. A life that doesn’t want to live. It’s as if we’re dancing to a symphony,
the score for “The Stepford Wives.” Everybody feel good, look good, sound good, for
that’s your goal and your life. Do this, step here, walk there. Yes, that’ it. No, more.
No, less; just right. Smile. Pause and look away. Now move on. Very nice
to meet you. You did it well. They never noticed, they couldn’t tell, your act sufficed.
When will it end, this life of lies, staying in character? The only thing real is that…
it’s not real. Should I satisfy my thirst with that drop of truth or break the act
over my knee and melt the plastic into nothing? The furry swells inside, the feeling
that I can’t escape the shroud of secrecy looming over the living. The living?
Is that right, because I couldn’t tell? Reality exists but not in real time, the charade must
go on. For this act contains the only piece of truth left. Inside I fight and thrust
outward, trying to explode on to the scene, to scream, “Here I am it’s me!”
Really me, yeah, I know you don’t know me, but it’s me, I want you to see,
for yourself, but not the you I know, the you inside of you, the one inside the shell,
the one that speaks, the one that hurts, the one that’s watching this from hell,
the prison inside a plastic world. I want to live, to understand the free,
those that cry but not on cue, those that laugh outside the script, those that see
behind the scenes, those that distinguish their dreams and forget their lines,
those that have mined their feelings and brought them to the surface of life.
Real people, real problems, real hurts, real concerns enveloped in a world
of plastic. People trapped, anxiety ridden, scared their thoughts may unfurl.
But let them. Open up and stop pretending. Open up and quit reliving
the same steps the established programmed into your existence. Go on and give in
to the urge to be you, uncensored. Reject the life piety sells. Step to that raw
honesty. Let rage for dishonesty melt the plastic away. Exist, scars and all.