The Mirror of Mind: Teenage Literary Art

To be or not to be....
a theatre fiend,
THAT is his question,
THAT is his reflection,
that's his drug of choice,
his artsy misery...

Whether 'tis nobler...
to be a perception of an ideal
from a waking dream...

Dramatized, lifted high,
and stigmatized
before the faces...

Or to be merely faceless...

There is no answer, so it seems.

The Mad Actor has no face
of his own, only masks, mad and sad
masks that mock his real motivations,
to be the real he,
not indecisive Hamlet-he,
not King Oedipus scoffing in blind,
arrogant majesty,
not Romeo charming
the Juliet who doesn't even exist!

This, THIS
is the way the world ends,
with false applause and my whimpers...

To be the Mad masked Actor
on this modern stage
is to be fair Ophelia with no
sweet robins or joy.

Here's fennel and columbines
for you,
And here's some rue for me.
But the violets are all dead, my lovely.
Can you not be see?

This script is binding
and the mask is glued,
but I have my rue,
so pray tell, what have you?

In the face of chaos
You must sing to Him,
"A-down, a-down, a-down, a-down,"
And you, Call Him,
"A-down, a-down, a-down..."

Oh...
Oh how this wheel becomes it...

This, this is the way the world ends,
with false applause and our whimpers...

And so I sing to thee,
Good night, good night,
Sweet ladies, good night,

"Sweet ladies and gentlemen,
For your cruel viewing pleasure,
Let us measure how far these
Poets will fall from their high rimes,
for their crimes to imprisoned misfortune."

The lights are dimmed,
but the show's not over.
It's never, ever going to end,
my friend,
so let us go then, you and I,
where the actors are dramatized
and lifted high...
and stigmatized before the faces...

Flying and dying in the lighted stage,
moves dictated by the pen and page,
gripped by the chaos of an illogical thought,
Eternal characters, we, the Mad Actors!
Why do we live the scripted life?

- Thomas B. McDonald