The Pole-Dancing Clown

The Pole-Dancing Clown

Under the big top glow, I climb and spin,

Painted smile stretched wide on borrowed skin,

Laughter echoes, but I hear the strain,

A dancing fool disguising deeper pain.

My fingers grip the cold and shining steel,

Each twist a story I don’t dare reveal,

They cheer the tricks, the colors, the delight,

But miss the shadows dancing in the light.

Bright stripes wrap tight around a restless soul,

Balancing chaos, trying to stay whole,

I flip through air like nothing’s weighing me,

Yet gravity knows all I try to be.

A red nose hides the tremble of my breath,

Each act a flirt, a fleeting dance with death,

The spotlight burns, demanding I pretend,

That every fall’s a joke that I transcend.

They see a clown who thrives on dizzy spins,

Not all the quiet places where it thins,

The line between the act and who I am,

Blurs like the colors in this painted glam.

Upside down, the world feels more sincere,

Less noise of joy, more whispers I can hear,

Inverted truths drip slowly from my core,

What’s up is down—and I can’t fake it more.

Applause rains down like confetti in the air,

A thunder meant to show me people care,

But silence waits the moment curtains close,

Where only I must face what no one knows.

So I keep climbing, higher than before,

A painted heart they’ll always still adore,

A pole, a stage, a life both wild and worn,

A laughing mask—and something else, reborn.

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