I dwell among the familiar ways,
A familiar face as
any,
The mango man they
often call me,
I am not one but one
in many.
In my lair, I am the king,
Yet pushed around by hooligans.
I am simple and full of heart,
Yet lost in my directions.
The world is my work, my
work is my art,
My life is built on
the reaction I get,
Sad I am about this devilish
system,
Where there is no
hope I fret.
The ringmaster
carries the show along,
With a big fat grin
on his face,
Devious he is as he
steals all the credit,
And blames me for all
the menace.
Somewhere high above
the platform,
God watches our show
with discontent,
And waves at me to
play along,
Not sure as to what
it meant.
To the world I am a
joker doing his job,
A joker and just a
simple joker,
But for me, for me I
am nothing,
Nothing but a
performer,
A performer who knows
how to do his job,
A performer who works
and achieves the most,
A performer who is deceived
and is left behind,
A performer who
stands up and has nothing to boast.
And yet, at the end
of the day,
Hinding tears behind
paint,
It is I, the common
man,
Who is laughed at.
(c) Mitul Magu
August, 2012
August, 2012
