By: James Aitchison

Why are those who make us laugh
themselves so often distressed?
Why does sorrow haunt humor?
Why does genius hide depression?
Is manic mirth a form of madness?

Are their smiles a frail facade —
their jokes a masterful deception?
And when they leave the stage,
when they dim their own lights,
perhaps we must share the blame…

We are so easily entertained,
so blinded by laughter,
that we can’t see the comic’s
cry for help.

For the loneliness of the clown
is the greatest loneliness of all.