We are all talk We are all advice We are theories We are all philosophy Too many opinions Too much knowledge Too much water, nothing holding us Nothing giving shape We are all shapeless Too little back bone Not enough spine We are all pages None of us are books We are all something None are enough Too much thinking Not enough living We don't do We haven't done None are perfect For We do not practice Too many preachers
I am a cheerleader for the bones I see through my skin, and the darkness of night often feels close to kin. But I pray to the sun for it to cure my head. I want to be strong, or I want to be dead.
At 10, I didn’t plan to stay long. This inhibited my ability To think forward. Equally, I struggle to look back. I rebranded this, as living in the moment. Truth is, I never planned to make it to 24. And now that I’m almost there. I just can’t figure out what to do with myself.
There is a warmth missing from me A coldness about my being A kindness put to sleep I don’t care enough Perhaps I once did, perhaps I will again But that part of me is broken, now. I have this timid fear Of never being able to care enough Maybe this is the warmth missing from me. The empty coldness that shadows my happiness The uneasy sway to my stillness. My great discomfort.
There is a warmth missing from me A coldness about my being A kindness put to sleep There is a violence about me And I am tortured by my inability to describe it There is an imbalance to my stillness An uneasy sway, it causes a great discomfort As I write this, I am greatly discomforted
There is a warmth missing from me I cannot figure out what it is. I get this feeling A shadowy empty coldness Lurking from the corner of my happiness. And it runs away, whenever I ask what it is.