He paints his face and becomes the clown
Checks the mirror for his furtive frown
Got it all hidden inside
Watches the people having fun
He wants to run
Get away
To that day
When the children played
So long ago
Time goes by
But the screams still cry
He paints his face and becomes the clown
Checks the mirror for his furtive frown
Got it all hidden inside
Watches the people having fun
As he spins the gun
More laughter as he drops with a bang
Huge applause they begin to stand
Then no sound
Suddenly the laughter turns to frowns
So sad
The death of a clown..
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Author:
Paul Bell (Pseudonym) (
Online) - Published: October 17th, 2026 05:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 20
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Teddy.15, Tristan Robert Lange
Online)
Comments6
good write friend, much enjoyed
Thanks, Norman.
most welcome my friend
Being a clown is great fun. The court jester has great freedom. I used to dress as a clown for kid parties and Halloween and always painted a frown on my face. It gave more freedom than a smile that seemed forced and required one to always act happy even when not. This poem speaks of hidden feelings behind the mask and the very act of shooting oneself is not seen as tragic until the end. Nicely done my friend with a deep message
Never give clowns guns.
I never liked clowns 🤡 very well written, off your usual tracks, was it Mary in disguise? lol 💋
Trick or treating you in my clowns outfit now.
Hello, Paul,
What a tragic tale, from the fun filled days of yore to the death of humour. The laughter, the bang and then the silence. Awfully sad and profoundly expressed. Well done indeed,
.
Fond regards,
Tony.
The mask was hiding his hurt for sure.
That applause made me feel sick, Paul. I wanted to shout for someone to stop clapping and help him. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Yes, when it's too late, it's too late.
Tremendous work.
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