She was a member of the group,
Though she arrived and left alone.
Nevertheless, she did belong,
She did her part, and held her own,

 

She had not planned to be a jester,
But that's what she had become,
Good with words and quick with quips,
She was, they thought, a bunch of fun.

 

Her smart remarks and short retorts,
Made her a real comedienne
Her bits of witty rhetoric
It seemed would never end.

 

Her facetiousness and humor,
Were part of the act that she put on,
A subterfuge to hide a past,
Which was bad and sad ... but gone.

 

She often had to force herself,
To attend their social functions,
She knew that they were good for her,
So she was driven by compunction.

 

Her circle of friends was pleasant,
Intelligent, attractive, nice,
Even thoughtful on occasion,
Though too generous with advice.

 

Like a woman without children,
Who knows how to raise a child,
Their wise advice was meaningless,
Self-righteous and self-styled.

 

How could they possibly understand,
Her anxiety and pain?
Her past, they never could perceive,
And no way would she explain.

 

She learned if she pretended,
To be happy all the time,
That sometimes, she really was,
And that nearly blew her mind.

 

But those occasions were short-lived,
They were few and far between,
Just enough to make life bearable,
But not enough to make serene.

 

When others shared their memories,
She would sympathize or laugh,
But she'd not entertain them
With the stories of her past.

 

Though her acquaintances were many,
She longed for loved ones and old friends,
She hid the pain that she contained,
By becoming a comedienne.

 

Unintentional, unplanned, unsought,
Life just worked out that way,
She'd be a fool and make it through,
Each passing night and day.