Poem: Showtime is Real

Showtime is Real

Empty.
Flat.
Devoid
of inspiration.
Just another day in the neighborhood.

No matter.
It’s showtime. Every day.
And you do
what you can do. Every day.

Even today.
Even now.
A private heroism,
Unseen in other’s own darkness and distractions,
you walk into the hail of bullets
your own head fires,
praying that for one more day
they are imaginary
and showtime is real.

About this poem

I write often about my depression, not to whine but to remind others, about 10% or more of us, that they are not alone.

“It’s showtime!” is my private mantra that I say, often out loud, as I get out of bed. Because the show must go on. That phrase is all that is left of my drama days in college, and it has served me well.

Tom

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