The Sad Clown

Paint upon my face, a smile that’s false and wide;
To cover tears I try to keep inside.
Within this circus tent, where laughter should abound,
My heart bleeds sorrow as the crowd surrounds.

The colors blend in streaks, creating lines of pain;
While children point and whisper, unaware I’m not insane.
I juggle with my emotions, trying to keep them afloat;
Forcing smiles, while tears silently drip down my coat.

A prankster’s hat sits atop my head, all floppy and red;
And though it’s meant for laughter, instead it weighs heavy upon me.
With each exaggerated step, I hope to conceal the truth;
That deep within this painted face, a broken soul seeks solitude.

The trumpet sounds, signaling the start of my act;
As I try to gather strength and push back the fact,
That every joke falls flat, each pratfall feels like defeat;
And through the laughter, the mockery that I must endure on this street.

Balloons are tied around me, each one a vibrant hue;
As if these strings could bind my wounds and make them anew.
But with every twist and turn of my body, they too become reminders:
Of the countless happy moments I pretend to inspire.

A lonely trapeze swing waits for me in the distance;
Where I can escape reality, even if just for a moment.
I climb up high, and as my feet leave the ground,
For a brief instant, I’m free from this clown who’s so profoundly bound.

As I swing back and forth through the air,
There is a glimpse of what it means to care.
The world seems brighter, more vibrant than before;
And within these fleeting moments, I can believe that there’s so much more.

But as I come down from this high that was so sweetly gained;
My feet touch the ground and reality returns, profoundly pained.
The cheering crowds dissolve into distant memory,
And the sad clown within me has no choice but to return to his misery.

As the spotlight dims and fades away,
I take off my costume, trying to find a way;
To separate myself from this character so grim,
But it seems as if I’ve lost touch with who I am within.

The Sad Clown is not just an act or a role;
It has become the essence of this lonely soul.
In this world of joy and laughter that I create,
I find solace in painting on this sad clown face.

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Dear Mike Ettinger,

Thank you for sending your work to POETRY magazine—and thank you, too, for your patience as you waited for our response.

We won’t be publishing anything from your submission, but we wish you the best of luck in publishing it elsewhere and appreciate you sending it our way.

Thanks so much for your support of the magazine. We hope you are as safe and well as can be.

Gratefully,

The Editors