Creative fun in
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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2250948
Pandemic despair
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, but I wanted you to be, but you were nonentity to be anymore, and there was nothing I can 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, but you will be somebody, 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—time to tip the wink.

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