Silence

Clown

Crowds of laughing, faceless people,

Applaud my antics of clumsiness.

My routine is as sharp as a scalpel,

Renowned worldwide for its funniness.

My red lipped smile, stretched to breaking,

Over shadows my true lips demeanour.

Sometimes, I dislike all this faking,

Acting stupid...such uncouth behavior.

Cumbersome, hindering, oversized shoes,

Gives way to knife edged balance.

If not careful, face plant, is how it goes.

Laughter, always, is the only condolence.

Raucous accolade at my spectacle,

Accompanied, by insincere genuflection.

Once more survived this circus debacle,

Like a mouse, I have no real station.

Before my mirror, tear streaked eyes,

Washes the makeup from my face.

How long have I believed these lies?

Deep down I feel the disgrace.

The make up that once disguised,

That hid a monsterous facial presentation,

Only concealed a soul, defiled,

One with a deep, dark secret passion.

While clowns run amok in France,

I silently and with alicrity commit,

Deeds, so macabre, that I prance!

Stephan King would be proud of my It.

Blood and gore drip from my hands,

My foul, mockery of a clown mask,

Smothered in crimson demands.

Successful in yet one more task.

At work or play, I change my guise,

Today a smile, tomorrow sad.

I wear my features, as a disguise.

I know that I am truly...mad.