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Description
Midnight scribbles
Uneven strokes
All I have to go by
Are blood curdling jokes

No I'm not a ghost
But the face is painted white
It's my groggy thoughts
That blind my horrid sight

With crooked hands
A smile draws itself
An uncanny image
Meant to hide behind a shelf

I can not talk
Talking is not me
But I can always walk
And take my only chance to flee

A Style so eccentric
Few that would accept
It that beams a grin
While batmans' joker slept

So quiet and obnoxious
Who could stand the mime?
Outrageous and preposterous
But you still slip a dime

You receive a gracious bow
In return for pennies thrown
But then you see its inquiring eyes
That seem to chill you to the bone

What made it choose to live this way?
To trap itself in an invisible box
To be degraded with face paint
While tripping over non existent rocks

It works morning to night
Making children laugh
Not needing words...
Nor throne, nor staff

What if the smile isn't painted?
Just magnified, enlarged
What if its intentions aren't tainted?
And its joy is free of charge

If this is no childhood nightmare
But an opinion I let stall...
What if the "it" I've been referring to
Is a human being after all...