The Actors

Oh the actors on the stage,

Which I see them flawlessly reading their scripts,

Providing me with comfort, what do they speak?

Oh the actors on the stage, what do they see when they perform?

Do the actors see the dangling lights that I see presented as an audience? 

Or the deep space of darkness which they cover up?

Oh the actors in the spotlight, what do they see when they read their scripts?

Does the view change when they pull away their scripts?

Do the beautiful colors that were once presented be dampened with the darken colors corresponding to the space of darkness?

Without the script what do they see?

Oh the actors on the stage… Is the stage they stand upon not the stage that I have been imagining of?

Is it the platform that makes up the source of life?

Is it the one that makes the ground, the water, and the life move?

Is it the reality?

So what are the scripts they read?

Is it their life? Are their actings real?

When is life just acts. When are the colors we see just an illusion.

Oh we actors on the stage of life, for when does our acting become reality?

This question of doubt cannot be questioned on the stage of life as everything is reality, whether we’ll read from our scripts or not.

So the question should be: how vivid are our colors that we see on the stage of life?

Author's Note

I’m sure there are some, if not a lot of, grammatical error in this poem, if you could kindly specify them in the comments that’ll be great. Also other comments will be appreciated.

This poem talks about "the actors" on the stage which the stage is a metaphor for life and the actors are normal people. In this poem I thought about how we "act" in our life (it is up to the reader how "act" is interpreted), how and what makes life meaningful.