self-expression

The Curtain’s Cost

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

https://www.backstage.com/magazine/article/mask-in-theater-explained-77455

The Curtain’s Cost

I am utterly exhausted by this relentless play,
The heavy curtain of performance drawn too long.
I cannot hold the hollow smile another day,
To mask the deep, the aching emptiness that’s wrong.

The burden of a self that isn’t mine to wear,
To fit the mold you fashioned, cruel and tight,
An agonizing stretch away from who I care
To be—my own identity, eclipsed by your light.
You see a project, a design that must be met,
But tell me, why must the authentic me be cast aside?

I am finished fabricating reasons I have set,
For every thought and every reaction I can’t hide.
I’ve justified my nature to a vacant crowd,
To people who, I now accept, simply don’t care.

The painful truth: my hope was spoken out loud,
A unilateral effort lost on thin, cold air.
I poured my heart to mend what broke between,
But found no shared commitment, no reciprocal tide,
A solitary swimmer in an apathetic scene.

The loneliness, a constant, heavy friend,
A silent weight that settles on my weary chest.
It is an awful life, but if this is the end—
The price of being whole, of being finally blessed
To be myself—then I will pay the cost,
Choosing difficult solitude to rescue what was lost.

A burning, sharp anger now begins to rise,
A desperate need to shatter this profound pain.
But I know with bleak certainty in my own eyes,
That fury would be wasted, dissipating like the rain.

This crushing truth has settled, stark and clear:
Nothing I say, nothing I do or fail to be,
Holds any weight for them, for those who stand so near.
My voice is mute, my actions they refuse to see.

They are truly, utterly indifferent to my strife,
They do not pause to question what my heart endures.
My suffering, my struggle, the very pulse of life,
Is an irrelevance that their coldness secures.

I feel the urge to weep the entire day away,
To curl beneath the covers, let the sadness claim,
But reason whispers of a temporary stay,
No lasting remedy to solve this bitter game.

The torrent of resentment pleads to be set free,
A physical demand I check with weary hand,
Because the simple, crushing truth remains with me:
It will not change a thing across this barren land.

A complete despair now chills me to the bone,
In this cold context, in this life they have defined,
The heartbreaking finality I stand upon alone,
The truth that leaves no solace for the mind:

Nothing matters.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Fearless Flight

/ Nancy Ann Creed / 2 Comments
graceful seagull gliding through blue sky
Photo by Robert So on Pexels.com

The silent prisons of our own mind,
Worry for the deeds we left behind,
The chances lost, the paths we feared to roam,
Our potential dormant, never brought home.
This anchor heavy, second-guessing’s sting,
Drags down the soul that was meant to sing.

To truly live, regret must be outrun,
A risk embraced beneath the morning sun.
The unknown holds the promise of our growth,
A fertile ground for a pledged oath.

Take the chance at greatness, a choice for all,
Be willing to reach, to answer the call.
See what reserves within your spirit lie,
Of strength and grace beneath the open sky.
Commit to the dream, take the fearless flight,
Forward with conviction, leaving behind the night.

Hesitation is the foe of every deed,
By fearing failure, planting doubt’s cold seed.
You’ll never know the heights you could attain,
The monuments you’d build through sun and rain.
The touch of courage, how it might inspire,
A beacon lit by your own brave fire.

Embrace the call: Take the chance once more,
See what you can do without a shore.
Take the challenge, soar upon the breeze,
Let past regrets dissolve with newfound ease.
Don’t look behind; the future lies ahead,
Just keep the onward path and be well-led.

Belief and grit define the way we go,
The goals you set, the success you will know.
Though failure whispers—part of learning’s art—
Do not let that dark shadow break your heart.
The glorious chance of victory is near,
For this bright hope, dispel all doubt and fear.

Stop postponing the life you wish to lead,
Write the unheard book, plant the needed seed.
Learn the unlearned dance, let rhythm take hold,
Sing out your heart, a story to unfold.
Let nothing hold you back—no fear, no scorn,
The time for your own greatness is this morn.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd

The Weary Crown of Morning

/ Nancy Ann Creed / Leave a comment

aerial photography of city buildings during golden hour
Photo by Eric Goverde on Pexels.com

The jarring, insistent shriek,
An alarm clock’s metallic cry,
Assaults the fragile morning’s peace,
A painful echo in the sky
Of my dark skull. I groan, a sound
Instantly swallowed by the deep,
Heavy silence all around,
I try to meld back into sleep.

A cruel hand pulls, a rhythmic beat,
From sleep’s warm, velvet, soft embrace,
It snatches me, with sudden heat,
And leaves my heart against my face.
My eyes fly open, dark and blank,
Staring up at the ceiling’s shade,
My body, safe within the bank
Of blankets, a fortress I have made.

But now the cold kiss starts to creep,
A sharp, unwelcome morning chill,
That pricks the skin I cannot keep
Beneath the covers, lying still.
With weariness, I fight the day,
The first act: pull the fabric high,
To hide, to make the light away,
And plunge into a private sky.

No. It can’t possibly be now,
Time is a thief that steals the night,
I want to vanish, somehow,
From all the expectations of the light.
Just lie here, a statue, breathing low,
Letting my mind drift, free and wide,
Back to the quiet dreams I know,
A ghost the sheets completely hide.

This is my refuge, warm and deep,
A sanctuary I’ll not leave,
While outside, light and noises sleep.
I am a vessel that will receive
A torrent of chaotic thought,
The doubt, the list, the sudden spark,
In this brief silence, dearly bought,
Before the world steps from the dark.

But then, the quiet starts to fade,
A deep, weary settling down:
Alas, the rising must be made.
Each day, a loop, a weary crown.
I run a race that has no end,
Against the clock, against demands,
A weight that bends, and still must bend.
I shove the covers with both hands.

The only prize, the only true
Reprieve, is time, unscheduled, pure:
To take a day, a week or two,
With only my children, to be sure.
No emails, bosses, or cruel stress,
Just me and my kids, simple, slow,
Wrapped in the light of quietness.
That is the only finish line I know.

https://books2read.com/u/m25Ygd