Here it comes,
the shotgun of emotion.
Desolate;
I stare off into the distance over
this wishing well of despair.
If I cut myself
would I even bleed?

A beacon of darkness
swallowing me whole.
I claw at my face
as I silently scream.
Is there a way out of this contraption?

I write what I feel,
I'm not feeling much.
Somethings stuck.
It hurts to not even feel hurt.
These eyes die to cry,
yet nothing seeps out of the void.

No one can save you except for yourself.
That's the joke. Get it?
It was you all along,
you only ever needed to listen to yourself.