Pain like a sledge hammer,
Pounding my heart.
Like a thespian on the stage,
I am performing my part.
I see the other players,
Realities lived almost scripted it would seem.
Hoping its a performance yet knowing its not,
A playwrights Eldorado, his loftiest dream.
Mistakes constantly recurring,
Sanity afforded only a few.
A comedy of errors made time and again,
Not very often is anything new.
Before my dressing room mirror I ponder their fate,
Would my entrance had been early,
I might could have helped.
But in lifes' cruel reality, it was way too late.
So alone in my room now I ponder their fate.
The others by now youve guessed are not really a cast.
Theyre neighbors, friends and loved ones,
People I care for with feelings so vast.
Just know my hands are shackled to help you,
In the struggle to end your insanity.
For they must hold tight my own life,
And barely can help me.
©2011 Walt Hardester
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