Sad Clown

why, why, brain, why?

it seems that no matter how I try

to conform

to stretch my spine and measure up

in any significant way

I will continue to fail

to be cursed, shunted into

the prophetic state of being I now reside

an existence that places

me squarely into the category

of tragic annoying clown

irony is clearly the demon following me

I have a phobia of clowns, you see

no wonder I feel such self-loathing

how did I become one of the millions

of myopic face painters?

content with the pallor my shapeless blob

of an entry point highlighted with a few round

white stains, just suggestions of a face

happy to troll the crowds

with my imitation of so-called life

to get a smattering of smiles and laughs

from the asinine antics, stalking, and trolling me

no matter my route or destination in life

more importantly, could I not have gone on bare-faced

clean and fresh into the world of critics and

pie wielding weirdos

I tire so quickly of this obstacle course

all I ever wanted, my only true desire in life

was a seat in the audience

a chance to emit a hearty laugh

not a grease paint stick

to draw false emotions and fearful conclusions

or a recording device to play hollow

haunting chuckles and the

call of the sad trombone from

my oversized breast pocket

K.B. Silver