Please ‘Play’ The Audio/Video Above And Follow Along With The Words Below.
Place a crowd inside a hall,
The rich, the poor, the proud, the small.
At just one glance, we make our call—
Who stands tall, who seems to fall.
A jacket pressed, a careless shirt,
The shoes that shine, the hands of dirt.
A lifted chin, a lowered gaze,
We judge within a heartbeat’s haze.
A smile too sharp, a stare too shy,
The tilt of head, the narrowed eye.
Even the curve of cheek or face
Can shift our thoughts in that brief space.
But strip them bare, all seated low,
Cross-legged, silent, eyes turned slow.
No garments left, no shield, no guise,
Just human flesh beneath our eyes.
And suddenly, we’re lost, unsure,
The signs are gone, the masks obscure.
A crowd of bodies, nothing more,
No less than human at their core.
Yet every day we play our part,
A costume stitched with practiced art.
An actor’s craft is not their own,
We share that gift, though less well known.
Nicholson shows us how it’s done—
A tramp, a lover, anyone.
He shifts with ease from face to face,
We too perform in every space.
Interviews, a sharpened smile,
Business calls, a practiced style.
Nights out laughing, feigned delight,
Masks we polish, day and night.
You claim you’re different, free, unique,
That you don’t care what others seek.
But truth will whisper, firm, unkind:
We’re actors all, in love’s great bind.
For what we chase is not applause,
But love that fills our hidden flaws.
Without its warmth, we fade away,
From deep inside, we rot, decay.
So do we choose identity?
Or does it rise from what they see?
Perhaps we’re scripts we never write—
Yet crave the love that makes us right.
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Catch Ya Later ….
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Ven Bunce …..
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