Everyday I build a mask
Up to the task
But now there’s no real me
Call me a collage
Of spare parts found in Berlin’s garage
But there’s no real me
I cut clippings from my dreams
And move them around till they look like me
But there’s no real me
My paste-on eyes can see right through
All of you
But you don’t see me
Josephine entertained
They’d laughed and swooned
All she had was her pain
Carefully tuned
Boy was she was without shame
So elegantly marooned
The mask was just her band-aid
She worked the wound
I finally found a home
Between the clicks of a metronome
Now there’s no real me
I went out on a limb
But the tree disappeared and the sky grew dim
Now there’s no real me
My pain entertains
I see you applaud
Thanking God you’re sane
Now woe is me
I’m cursed to entertain
You laugh and swoon
All I have is my pain
Sharp and in tune
And should I feel ashamed since I’m still here marooned
No one else can be blamed
For me working the wound
I’m still working the wound
I’m still working the wound
I’m still working the wound
(stew’s blog; passing strange: now playing at the berkeley repertory theatre)
