All the world’s a stage.
Will was so very right.
I don’t say that with wonder,
But with self-directed spite.
He called them seven stages.
I think there are only two:
One where you’re freely unconscious;
And one where you have caged you.
You gather all social constructs,
With them construct a prison.
Inside you do a mono act, which
You believe is sold out every season.
Of course everyone is watching,
What else do they have to do?
So you cower beneath the spotlight,
Of a million, imaginary eyes boring into you.
You cater to the audience;
Assume the right glamours and poses.
You clamour for applause.
You don’t want brickbats, but roses.
One day you discover, the cage,
Has one bar slightly bent.
You gingerly crawl out, confused,
For you remember no precedent.
Little by little you realise,
The pointless cause you have pandered to.
There is no one else to blame.
It is you who caged you.
I remember that very moment,
When I fell from my own grace.
I’ll paper up my mirrors today.
I cannot bear to see my face.