A playwright's drama

My heart's not breaking,
and that is by virtue of empty feelings,
if that is so; why is it that I tremble at your touch?
you and your mysteries; me and my intricacies,
when we kiss; my eyes still won't close,
I'd silently scream for them to close; but they betray me and refuse to shut,
I feel like an actress waiting for that curtain call,
acting? is that we are doing?
if that is so; why does it all hurt ? why do I feel such pain and misery?
my mind is a mess; filled with utter confusion.
I don't want to live a lie,
but is it? is my disinterest merely but a facade?
at the beginning it had felt like a bed of roses,
but it became a void of nothingness,
the poetry I wrote was so full of life and emotion,
now tis' a poet's thoughtless blabber about blank,
I'm still waiting for that curtain call,
I'm sick of portraying a character I am not,
Pretending? a pretense that is seemingly real ;
but is also of false emotions?
the intensity of emotions and feelings are unbearable,
while I perform a mindless scene centre stage,
I'm praying for the ending of this melancholic Playwright's drama.