An empty shell
That is what we are.
Soulless, chaotic and scratchy,
An end without a start.

Impossible to prove this so,
Impossible to prove otherwise,
Impossible to reap this sow,
Impossible to see through the eyes.

At an impasse of life,
A conundrum of creation,
At an instance of hopes,
Realisation jubilation.

Do you understand me ?
Do you feel the way that I see ?
Do you understand love and peace and prosperity ?
ABC's and quasi bravery ?

Is your life centric around a certain sense of chaos ?
Mindless, cajoling with an ironic sense of pathos,
Pathetic and burning without any sort of love
Deeming yourself worthy of loving from above.
Knowing that winging your a lame winged dove,
Holding yourself backwards with a half lazy cuff.

You don't relate,
For you I grate
Writing down all this
I don't want to think anymore
My weariness is overwhelming,
Though though I hate it,
I find the process calming.
****, um, yeah
The end.

I can feel it burning,
it's sat inanimate in my hands,
with my hands I'm turning,
trying to exert some life.

It's intricately strewn there,
nearly opaque and bland,
hardly seems unfair
that this curse has fell.

With a scent repugnant
it exerts itself entirely
into another psyche
to destroy their front.