Why must I live in a world 
plastered with a facade of sincerity? 
The imitation of promise... 
is only a promise for a broken future. 

I keep my thoughts from spilling 
across pages and from others. 

But my actions cannot be withheld. 

Sleep has become more of a haven for me 
- where the nothing cannot touch me.
 
It never stops... the thought of who I am. 

Am I any different from the rest? 
Am I merely an empty vessel? 
If so the only difference between me 
and the rest is I am well aware of it. 

I stand hollow, but without noise.