There is an emptiness inside of me.
It does not stare back.
It offers nothing,
And it gives nothing.
Deep within me, it festers,
Writhing in unnatural ways,
Shooting infinitely black tendrils
Through every vessel of my brain.
They wrap themselves around
My memories, my emotions,
My friendships and obligations,
Like eating and education,
Then yanks them all into that void,
That vast emptiness,
And leaves me as
A fraction of who I once was.

By: Forrest Jorgensen