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Rated: 18+ · Poetry · Dark · #2250948
Pandemic despair, when you tried everything to keep life and fail.
I had center stage hastily moving about drowsy and tiered anxiety; where is my sanity, oh there goes my sobriety, what propriety?
I needed sanction; where is the action? I whisper, Oh, I hear your lisper. I need a drink to block the images of the darkness the earth has cast upon us; now I am the cast.

And I'm ambling about in my fucken scrubs, what a disdainful production watching your breath leave your being. Still, I wanted you to be, but there was nothing I could do, no matter how much I screamed in my head, no matter how much I hard-pressed your chest, and I blest you. Where is my drink? I need a shrink, I whisper.

Stop all resuscitation efforts! Yells the producer. Oh fuck it, I will wait for your resurrection, from your separation, your apparition, for you will be back but not in the same body. I whispered as I tried to contain whatever was left of me. I had been trying too hard walking about in your room, trying to keep your being.

But I wasn't god, gods dead too. I guess you will see him soon...maybe at noon. But you can't tell me what he looks like because you're quiet now, and I am the unquiet…that stirs about blending with the background of this fucked up scene.

The shell of you remains; farewell, your family will be here shortly; you look ghostly-like pale, oh you were frail, I failed, but you had to sail.
I remembered the cherry me baby lips in my bag and rosy eyeshadow with a q-tip. I took a bit of the red and another a bit of eye shadow to hide your lifeless color. I dab some on your pale lips and paint your eyelids with rosy pink. You look alive again… good; they will arrive soon, this afternoon.

I had center stage; I don't want to be the lead get me out of this fucked up set. I don't want to play anymore; there is no need to bow my head. This is my low, not my best show. Now hand me that drink, would you please, put me at ease— it's time to tip the wink.

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