Blots

|Clown|

A clown.

In a circus peppered with pretence.

A clown

That feeds off of himself.

A clown

That can't keep a straight silence

For any longer than it takes for him

To think up a new joke

For an extra laugh.

His hilarious anecdotes

That take the spotlight for decades together;

His goofy smile, sniffing for validation

That makes up for awkward silences;

His ability to make people laugh

When there's nothing to laugh at.

A clown.

A clown everybody loves.

A clown that hates himself.

And every morning, he covers his dark circles with

Stuff that makes them look darker

And then he does a jig and says,

'I didn't sleep well

Yesterday.

I'm so stupid.'

And he derives nervous chuckles

From anyone who will

Stand watching him try

To be amusing-

He's attracted to it.

Better a nervous chuckle

Than a mean remark.

Better an unsure smile

Than an obvious middle finger.

Better a world that uses him

Than one that doesn't know it can.

They all love him.

They say he makes their life a better place.

He smiles like someone

Who isn't used to such things.

And thanks them for that.

They smile.

He cracks a joke.

The face gets washed over

By profuse irritation.

He doesn't stop.

He falls on his knees.

And apologises for the piece of doormat he is.

They stare in dilated confusion

A hopeless canoe 'gainst the ocean,

Not knowing what to say-

And walk away.

Leaving him confused

About what went wrong.

And every night,

He sleeps with his head against

The cool, unassuming rim of the shower

And raises the knife to his wrists.

The two slits glisten in the rising steam

Like so many roses.

He dies every night.

And every morning he bears dismay,

Scrubbing the remnants off his body

And painting a smile

With the blood he lost

Yesterday.

A clown, yes.

In so many little ways.

In a circus carved upon his epitaph.

And writing about his loveless days

Makes him laugh.