I find you in a room of a hundred walls where you can’t find yourself. You presume you too can find me, but I can’t feel it. I move my feet towards you and scream:
“I EXIST. YOU EXIST. I EXIST. YOU EXIST.” But you don’t seem to slightly hear me. Your eyes still pitch black, darker than the night but glittering and shimmering brighter than a million constellations. Does that indicate a near burnout? Or are you still in the process of combustion? Maybe you’ve exploded many light years ago but the aftermath is still demonstrating in your eyes fierier than ever.

“Insignificant.” You mumble.
“I exist, you exist.” I weep.
“I exist, you exist. But do exits exist?” you smirk, and I no longer want to exist.

Maybe if you throw me at the bottom of an ocean I’ll be deep again, or maybe if you throw me up so high I’ll finally fly. Poor can be lack of feelings, poor can be lack of expression, poor can be lack of understanding and poor can be me. Sadness can be sometimes blue, sadness can also paint you black even if your roots are golden.
It’s okay. You don’t need to always shine. It takes special people to see your blaze and it would be preferable if they’re blind. Not necessarily visually impaired, but devoid of light. Maybe they’ll tell you that you’re not as poor and can actually make them feel something. It’s scary when you carry nostalgia for a specific thing that you have no eye sight for. No eye sight except at the back of your mind.

The burning desire for something that is unknown is like searching for something invisible with the naked eye. I feel naked, naked and so full of everything.
I am driven by notion.
I’ll be merged with the darkness.
I’ll be surging with the waves.
You’ll feel me in the gentle breeze,
Smell me between the leaves after rainfall,
and you won’t be as petrified to take one step closer.

Don’t you dare tell me you know the confusion of missing someone until you search for their features in every person you meet, or even worse, search for them in the crowds of passing strangers in the street and how you suddenly stand and stare if it’s them buying a certain food or riding shotgun in a car. It leaves you in shambles, stupefied as if you’ve lost your 5 senses to develop a 6th. You run around in circles as if that ‘6th’ is all you care about, that if you saw them in front of you the whole world would just stop its orbiting, and the only orbiting thing would be your feelings as you stand still unable to mutter a letter, flinch or make a single sound.

But eye contact scares you, doesn’t it? It gives your bones a colder shiver than that of the chilly winter, and you realize you can only spend time with them in your tired head.

Where are you? Or where am I? Where’s God? Where’s the world heading? Why am I the way I am? Why are you the way you are? All vain questions remain with no answers and I’m done trying, searching for an answer that would alkalize my bitter acidity or tranquilize my electricity. It all seems so vaguely distorted, it all hurts. The feeling never left me, the only thing that has ever been there for me constantly. Empty, empty, empty, made a home out of the void, made peace with anxiety. So silence please wash me.

Here you are still, once again, or shall I say, more than ‘once’..  
When was the last time you actually felt worthy? Not as much towards the universe because that’s a tremendously scary huge scale; but to the ones around you, to your daily use objects and mostly, to yourself. Have you ever felt it? If not, what were you truly feeling? And please tell me something new, something other than the one and only numbing ‘emptiness’ that has always lingered in the cavity of your chest.
That has always lingered in the cavity of your chest and ribs, so strong and powerful that it made your heart beat faster than its normal pace, each speeding pulse giving a booming sound that echoed in the linings of your stomach and vibrated your walls of the intestines. It made you sick darling, made you sick that you almost vomited your entrails inside-out, it made your often spinning head upside-down as the adrenaline rush increased as if some ominous shadow has been chasing you.
You’ve felt it, your blood heating up, its boiling point exceeding a hundred.  
You know what’s funny? Your frosty cold limbs, the tip of your nose. Your bruised knuckles cracking in harmony as you spoke in low tones just to keep the act of communication going. “Ouch”, now your jaw hurts too from smiling but that’s good! Good, unless it’s not from the bottom of your heart.
And now your friends keep asking, your mother keeps asking, your room’s walls keep asking: “When will you change your outfit?” and all you ever say:
“Someday, but not today.”
If it concerns you, what’s that outfit again? “Not okay.” I’d say.

Here you are, in the middle of the day, or shall I say, since the moment you’ve went to bed last night, you had hardly found sleep. You just cannot differentiate between the days anymore because they are all the same.
And as for the moment you’ve woken, you’ve cursed the sun for rising as if it were the reason for your sadness. Was it? Maybe the thought of a “Good-morning” had never existed in your dictionary of words, because everyday you’d wake up even more broken than the night before and if that makes any sense to you, I hope you feel me. Feel me, not sympathize with me. But what would your empathy serve me? Nothing. After all, you cannot save people, you just have to listen to them and tell them that someday, somewhere, everything will be alright and of course, they will not believe you. Because when you are standing in a dark forest, you cannot expect someone to talk to you about the sun when it hasn’t risen, yet. “Yet” is what you try to convince them when as a matter of fact, they had never seen it. At least not clearly bright and shining.

This is a link for a video a made for the poem "More Like Of.."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5YaoLxxfuU

Hope you like it and subscribe :)!

Guys, this is a video I made for the poem "Some People."
It's a spoken word with background music, hope you like it :)

You know it’s nothing but emptiness,
When you fail phrasing your feelings in words.
Other people might call it love rather than emptiness.

But let me tell you this:
Without emptiness,
We wouldn’t find warmth in love.

Some say love is frigidly cold,
Some say love is fondly warm.
Yet as seasons change from Summer to Winter,
Love will too.

And I’ve reached the point where I stopped seeking for love in people,
But in invisible objects that can keep me alive.

Can invisible objects really keep you alive?
Or will they leave you terrified?

Well, a definition for ‘Invisible Objects’ would be:
‘Emotions’.
And in the end,
Their purpose is to Not. Keep. You. Alive.