Coffee pouring
IV to my burnt veins
The wider I sprawl my eyelids
The harder they close against the world
Mascara streaking
Put on the right face
But the more I try to connect
The emptier I feel
I’m dead inside
But my pulse is still pumping
String up my bones
Keep this heart beating
Eyes focusing
Try to see straight
When the kaleidoscope explodes
Blinding color to my retinas
Brain firing
Stimuli down my fingertips
Keep trying to connect
The void gets deeper still
I’m dead inside
But my pulse is still pumping
Paint on the eyes
Finish the act and scene
Arms intertwining
Slip on the dress
Happiness is an outfit
I force myself to wear
Mouth twitching
Speak the right words
Read the script as it’s written
No improv on this stage
I’m dead inside
But my pulse is still pumping
Sew up my lips
If I don’t speak it, it’s not true
I’m an empty tunnel
That meets a dead end
About the Creator
Emily McGuff
Author of Crystalline (self-published on Amazon)
Lover of lyrics and poetry.
Obsessed with sci-fi and fantasy.
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall5 days ago in Fiction
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