You use your superficiality like a stage curtain.
A lovely velvet curtain, passionate red, deep and rich.
Your audience sits and stares at the curtain.
Eager but waiting.
Everyone but me was happy to sit and wait–wait for those curtains to open
And for the real show to finally begin.
You didn’t expect to ever meet a person to peek behind.
To steal a glance behind those curtains.
When I did–when I became appalled at what I saw–you blamed me.
Like I was the freak.
Like I was the one doing wrong.
I was sent back to the audience to sit with everyone else.
Telling others in the audience bared no good.
They didn’t believe me.
The curtains! They would cry. The curtains are too lovely to hide anything but greatness.
You are a freak! They would whisper as I grumbled, alone and to myself.
I wasn’t a freak.
Not then, not now.
I was only impatient.
I only wanted the show to start.
Turns out, the show I was waiting for is one I didn’t pay to see.
I’m afraid this just isn’t as advertised.
I hope the box office is still open,
I’m returning my ticket.
This poem has many meanings behind it, and that's what I love most about this piece. It's about the agonizing impatience. It's about the hatred behind secrecy. And lastly, it's the final signs of deception. But this is just my interpretation of "ShowTime" comment what YOU think it's about. :) This very symbolic submission is by Amelia Wellman from Canada.
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