My story is not to be heard. It cannot be a phrase made of words. The stuff I have seen can't be viewed on a screen; cause the image would just be a blur. My life was not printed on scroll. I was unfairly placed in this role. The crowd they applaud, and the curtain it called; as the act it began to unfold. The viewers they sat and they stared, as the straps held me down in this chair. I was bound to be found, to be safe and be sound; but the emptied out seats did not care. The encore was chanted and begged. Repetition grew close to the edge. I moved on to part two, just to light up the room; but was asked to play part three instead. The chapters all end in the back, as the pages they flip like a track. Once the book it is done and you grab the next one; my story falls last in the stack. The dust it collects and grows thick, as a magicless hat without tricks. The show must go on, from the stage I belong; yet the motionless tape left me sick. My story is real, it is true. It is not to be viewed by a few. From the cast in the past, to the now and the last; there is no role involved meant for you.