Amelia James Poetry

Every time you call me crazy,
I hear the sound of a gong,
and there you are,
the ringmaster in your circus,
twisting the truth into contorted shapes
and selling the lie like candy.

You spin your tales,
as I sit in the center,
trapped in a cage of your design,
with a spotlight burning me alive.
You call me crazy,
but what does that make you?
The ringleader,
grinning as I’m shoved into the lion’s den,
while you crack the whip
and laugh from your pedestal.

The show goes on,
but I’m the one bleeding behind the curtain,
you watching from your throne
as if my agony is part of the act,
the greatest performance of all.
I was never the one pulling the strings,
I was just a puppet,
my heart a marionette
dancing to the tune you wrote.

What does that make you?
The ringmaster in your circus of chaos,
pitting me against performers I didn’t know I’d have to fight,
turning every misstep into a spectacle
for your entertainment.

The knives you threw—
they were never meant for the target,
but for me.
Each one a reminder
that I was never supposed to win.
The crowd cheered,
but I didn’t hear their applause—
I heard the echo of my own collapse
as you took your bow.

I was the clown in your carnival,
playing my part in a game I never agreed to,
and you knew the whole time
that no matter how hard I tried to escape
I’d always end up back in the ring.

So call me crazy.
I’ll wear that title like a crown,
because in your circus,
maybe I’m the only one who knows
what it’s like to fight for freedom
with chains you can’t see.

And maybe, just maybe—
the joke’s always been on you.

-Amelia James