Not a Dress Rehearsal Poem, by gray0328, at My poetic side

I can argue with ghosts if I choose,

tell them what I meant to say,

compose victory speeches in empty rooms.

The applause is always thunderous,

but my hands stay still,

nervous against the seams of my jeans.

I win fights that never happened,

rewrite moments like a script doctor

splicing in the words I thought too late.

I win debates in the shower,

my voice ricocheting off tile

as if there's a jury to convince.

But when reality walks in,

it doesn’t read my prepared lines.

None of the arguments happen

because they never were more

than echoes of fear,

improvised by ghosts I named "control."

Recovery whispers: let go.

This life isn’t a dress rehearsal.

You’re not an actress; you’re a person.

Stop polishing speeches you won’t need.

Start standing in the mess of now,

letting your heart show up aloud.

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