The theatre is empty, dark.
The stage is bare.
My heart is all I hear.
My temples ache.
I'm caught within
a piercing spot light's glare,
that follows every step and turn I take.
I'm tired, pissed.
What contract did I sign?
Where's my director?
Feet up in some seat?
Why am I here?
Who said this script is mine?
I long to stop,
yet once more repeat:
'See HOW you ARE? '
I scream, 'Just go way! '
I whine 'Why me? Poor me! '
and then I start:
'It's fine. It's fine.
It really is okay.'
I even hear me
speak the other's part.
A nightmare gives you
gifts that you can take,
but fret-filled day-mares
never take a break.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem