Between Takes: Put a Pause on Pretend

A poem of pretend and profound provisions possibly penned by a person whos never known the difference

People play and pay the price everyday pending probable applause or downfall
redemption or repeated performance pressing pause only to face likely consequence confession and collapse
the theater never closes the play must go on
and now I put you in a place where you may not grasp the perseverance of an actor
who never stops performing all to please the people of the audience

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Between takes: Provisional Pretense

In this piece I am the poet the performer the critic and the unreliable narrator all parts of the ego wrapped into one
the work moves between the voice the self observing and the self being observed each moment blurs the line between what is felt and what is performed what is written and what is lived

This poem isnt just expression its exposure every confession becomes a script every hesitation a rehearsal
I question my own authenticity as I write aware that even my vulnerability can become a performance
the orange cup becomes an anchor something ordinary that reveals the extraordinary act of self observation

At its core this piece is about duality the tension between truth and presentation perception and privacy honesty and artifice
it is the moment of realization that even when I swear Im not performing I still am
the page becomes the stage the poet becomes the subject the story folds in on itself

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Poetic Prevail

The truth of the matter hits all at once
in the middle of my kitchen
as I reach for a glass of water
that unfortunately is
an average ol mid sized orange plastic cup

and in that
even in that
even in my vocabulary I tell you the context
of this stream of cathartic release meets profound self realization
for both the vanity of my existence
and the complete reason I do it
torn between what I want to say
and what I should say
torn between perception and protection
forced to provide deception as armor against humanity and myself

I am living in the
I cant even
Im censored in all directions
someone is always watching
or offending
or interpreting
or judging
and I never get to be myself

I am always performing
life has proven I am the greatest actor
no one knows the real me
the one I sleep with at night
the one who listens when Im restless
the one who laughs in the dark
while everyone else sees only the act

I am who I want to be
a phrase I borrowed long ago
and today mid kitchen
I realize it means exactly what it says
pick a life and choose it
or get thrown one and figure out what to do

I cant even get into specifics
it feels like a self incrimination
a deprivation cult performance
where every word could be evidence

you ask why I post this
and I ask myself the same
I deserve to be heard yes
but at what cost
the public says vulnerability bravery
but in truth I am a fraud of sorts

I let you believe
what I make you believe
you are at my mercy
I tell the story
I choose perception
dumbed down for some
enhanced for others
to protect the unfortunate truths
and the privacy of all involved

every sentence every rhyme every ramble
is a clue
see it in my vocabulary my pacing my character
see it in the way I talk to myself mid thought
the way I interrupt the way I repeat
the way I loop back
everything about me is a breadcrumb

someone recently called me a mirror
because she knows me oh all too well
and again I cant finish a sentence
without revealing too much

there I stand mid kitchen
with the only person who knows me
guard so high I didnt even realize it existed
I am eager to open
but theres no edge no crack
no fold no crease
no wedge no dent no chip to climb through

I can paint the picture in a thousand ways
but will you ever see it the way I do

I am my own worst critic
and before I let the words come out
Ive already judged them
stuck in my own loop of self acceptance
and complacent conformity
tied between being my own person
and a complete fraud
just pieces of people Ive picked up along the way

the mirror stares back at me
and I cant name the last time I was fully honest
a facade not to deceive you
but to make me easier to digest
I didnt even get the cup to my mouth
before judging my entire life in this mind of mayhem

a play Ive seen a million times
I know how it ends
yet my eyes stay glued to the screen
waiting for what comes next
though I know it all too well

freedom feels so close yet so far
how do you unlearn a habit
so engraved in your being
how do you expose yourself
so completely
that the barriers no longer limit you
what are you willing to do
and who are you willing to lose

the hardest part about writing a poem
is knowing when to stop
I hate a cliffhanger
I want you to see time flash before your eyes
while youre falling from it

you and the cup fall at the same speed
but your impact is greater
and orange could be purple in his eyes
but the essence of it never changes

paint the photo orange
you still think of that clear glass
your perception your reality
but theres nothing real about any of it
I can paint the picture a thousand ways
but youll never see it the way I do

the wall I built is invincible
it has always been my nature
since youth I have performed
put on a facade
pretend to please
act content
do things their way

my act is stellar
everyone whos ever met me
can attest to its greatness

and yet here I am
mid kitchen orange cup in hand
desperate to paint the picture
to convey the feeling
stopped only by the performance itself
so convincing Im lost
between real and pretend
moment and moments end

people come and go
we hold some tight
keep some close
but it never lasts
then new ones arrive
and we start the show again
get to know me let me see you grow
time we spend money we blow
the story inevitably ends
and we hit the road again

this is life
we mold we learn we absorb
and still we go

today I paused
the world paused
as I reached for my orange cup
and I realized

you are who you want to be
you choose your reality
it is what you make it

the point is there is no point
this pause is the point
a moment to see all that lies upon me

even though
I must censor myself
questioning my choices
while actively making them
self aware yet self destructive
watching every move
as if the floor could collapse under me
and still stepping anyway

are you asking me if Im interested
or reminding me I have no choice

and this is what youre gonna say
I want to be free
I feel like I havent stopped running in years
Im always on go on alert never at rest
I want to be free of the shackles of my mind
of the weight of perception
of being perceived
but I am my own worst critic
and I cant unsee what Im about to do
its this twisted loop of torture and conformity
this deep longing to be my own person
even though
I must censor myself

I live in my reality
regardless of the emotional fooling behind it
and all I can do
is drink from this orange cup
and bear witness to myself
knowing every word every rant every joke
every self interruption
is part of the story
and every story is performance
even when I swear its not

CURTAIN CALL
Thank you for letting me paint the picture of the mind, park, and proclivity - a place where thought and performance collide, and where the act never truly ends.

INTERMISSION: THE SOUND OF YOUR OWN BREATH

Between takes:
the applause turns into silence.
And suddenly, you’re left with the sound of your own breath,
wondering if the show ever ended
or if you just forgot your next line.

With the orange cup in hand, I stare—
blankly—at my wall,
coming to these realizations,
having no idea how to overcome my issues.

I’ve thanked you for watching letting me paint the picture but i want you to feel it, to have it engraved in your brain to watch it unfold, here i watch myself like a inner/outer body experience to show you how act 1 might have ended but my life doesn’t. the show must go on and my act never ends. 
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PRELUDE: battles of the brain 

The spiritual awakening nobody talks about
isn’t some soft light or calm realization.
It’s a slap in the face —
a moment you realize God’s been rearranging your life,
forcing pieces to fall where they were meant to,
not where you placed them.

He’s not punishing me,
just tearing down everything I built that wasn’t real.
What I thought was bad luck
was just life breaking me down
so I could see what was underneath.

The chaos had to come without warning —
if I saw it coming, I would’ve fought it.
If I had time to prepare,
I would’ve stayed the same.
Because anything anticipated would’ve been defended,
and the false self never dismantles itself willingly.

So instead, He hit me mid-scene,
and I’m still figuring out
whether I’m the actor or the act itself.

The battle begins:
between reality and my reality,
between self and divine self.
Between takes,
I see glimpses of the truth
but can’t always act in a way that honors it.

Broken boundaries
known to bind broken hearts to their brains—
hearts that bear the weight of betrayal.
Between takes,
I see what’s bestowed upon me for a brief moment:
a hollow barrier,
a promise of a new, blissful beginning
that never arrives,
leaving me belittled, blinded.

You don’t expect it all to come crashing down—
but it must,
for you to move on.

(Lights dim. The orange cup remains center stage, glowing faintly.)

ACT II: BOUNDLESS BETRAYAL

I am censored even on a divine level.
Everything isn’t going my way,
and it’s because I am part of something bigger.
God has His hand far up my back like a puppet.
I sit on His lap, a ventriloquist’s dummy,
speaking lines I didn’t write,
placed in scenes I never auditioned for.
This is boundless betrayal —
to trust the hand that moves you
while questioning if it’s ever really been yours.
He stopped me in my tracks —
in the middle of my kitchen —
because I’ve been moving too fast,
not seeing the fruits of my labor rotting away,
molding because I haven’t tended to the right parts of myself.

Self-aware yet self-destructive,
but not aware at all.
Sometimes God gives you a problem
you have to figure out how to solve —
and I like puzzles.
That’s why I keep wracking my brain about it,
trying to find the symbolism.
I keep re-explaining the plot,
and something about the orange cup now triggers me.

It’s been days,
and I have yet to wash it.
She just sits in my sink,
a physical representation of where I am in my life —
still, stuck,
the wires God has been pulling
coming to a halt
so I can finally perceive what I’ve been avoiding.

How funny of me
to now place blame on someone else,
to try and take responsibility away from myself.
But it’s almost as if I don’t have a choice.
I even censor myself when speaking to God —
the all-knowing —
as if He doesn’t know,
as if He wasn’t orchestrating, watching, judging.

The one day I’ll be honest
is probably Judgment Day,
in the middle of the judging chair,
orange cup in trembling hand —
fully exposed, in tears,
to finally meet the real me.
Until then,
I hide within myself,
scared of everyone’s eyes,
including my own.

⸻

Between takes, I can hear the faint sound of my own breath —
steady, unplanned,
proof that I’m still alive somewhere beneath the act.
I try to pull back,
but the strings tighten.
My fingers tremble as they type,
my tongue falters mid-phrase,
uttering lines I didn’t script.
The audience is gone,
but the performance doesn’t stop —
He watches.
I am still the actor, still the poet, still the false self.

And yet — something stirs.
A flicker of awareness,
a spark beneath the surface
that refuses to obey every tug.
I twitch against the strings,
my spine arcs like a violin string under tension.
The orange cup in my hand rattles slightly,
as if it too senses the first pulse of rebellion.

In this provisional presence,
I spill water from my infamous cup —
it trickles down, creating a puddle at my feet
where I see my reflection:
muddled, fractured, rippling with each tug.
But this time, I reach toward it.
Not to perform,
not to narrate,
but to touch the edges of truth beneath the water.

I can feel the strings pulling me back,
but my hands shake anyway.
I put pretend on pause,
and for a fleeting second,
I almost recognize myself.
My voice cracks mid-word,
stuttering phrases that are half my own, half the performance.

I am resisting.
Not fully, not yet,
but the effort exists.
This is boundless betrayal —
to be both the deceived and the deceiver,
the marionette and the puppeteer.
The false self is screaming its lines,
but the real me is starting to speak between them.
I taste the beginnings of honesty —
bitter, raw, and heavy.

The curtain hasn’t fallen.
The audience may never applaud.
But I am here, trembling in the middle of my kitchen,
orange cup in hand,
listening to the sound of my own breath,
learning for the first time that resistance itself
is a scene worth performing.
CURTAIN CLOSE

To those who stayed through the silence,
thank you.
For watching me unravel mid-scene,
for seeing me as more than the role I played.

I know this act wasn’t easy to sit through —
it wasn’t meant to be.
But if you heard the tremor in my voice,
the break in my breath,
then you’ve witnessed something real.

The show pauses here,
not to end,
but to let the air clear.
I’ll take a bow,
not for the performance,
but for surviving it.

Thank you for your patience
while I learned how to breathe again
between takes.

⸻

DIRECTOR’S NOTE

Act II was never meant to be beautiful.
It was meant to expose what the mirror refused to say aloud —
the trembling truth that performance is survival,
and survival is sometimes the only thing we know how to do.

If Act I was confession,
Act II is confrontation —
the moment you realize you’ve been playing both roles all along:
the sinner and the savior,
the puppet and the hand.

And somewhere between takes,
in the quiet after pretending,
you start to hear yourself breathe —
not as a character,
but as a human being finally coming back to life.