Empty, hollow, eerily silent;
That's what's inside,
And surprisingly,
It doesn't bother me.

It was:
     Comforting, like the
     Soft waves of the sea,
     Or the gentle breeze of the wind,
     Or the rays of the sun,
     Or even the dimness of the moon.
It touches what's within.
If there's any, that's it.

I'm feeling everything
     That I can't even feel anything
     That I can feel nothing
     Anymore.

How can someone feel so empty
With no particular reason at all?

How can someone cry
     When there's nothing to cry for---
     When there's literally nothing
     Like that someone
     Who is empty to begin with?

Shouldn't someone cry for
What existed and got lost
Not because something doesn't?
Not because of nothing?

Nothing feels RIGHT anymore.
NOTHING feels right anymore.

Empty, hollow, eerily silent;
That's what's inside,
Eating the life out of me,
wanting me to cease to exist,
Tearing me from I don't know what.

Is this something you should nurse?
     The pain for it to go away,
     Or for you to be immune with it,
     To be constantly reminded,
     That you're still alive,
     That you're still capable
     Of feeling just anything
     Even if it is painful.

Despite the nothingness
That shades your being,
Despite the tears that came after
That threatened to spill even after
You let them all out;
It just wouldn't stop, would it?
Like how this emptiness can't be filled?

The wind is lucky it has the trees
     That danced with it
     With the daisies swaying
     To the symphony of its existence.

The sun is lucky it has its light
     That shines day and night
     With its rays stretched proudly
     And its warmth embracing thee.

The moon is lucky it has the stars
     Giving company to lonely hearts
     Or longing gazes through the night
     Never minding the light years apart.

The water is lucky it has hydrogen
     And a dose of oxygen
     That it can breathe life
     Calming the storm I'm brewing.

The earth is lucky it has all these
     That made it important
     To everyone's existence
     That it's something
     One can't live
     Without.

When will I be lucky
     When I don't even know
     If I still have my soul;
     When the only thing I know
          Is that I'm becoming a shell
          With nothing inside,
          With a hollow inside,
          Like a huge chunk of me
          Was eaten by
          An endearing, savage, yet
          Eerily silent nothingness.

Empty, hollow, eerily silent;
     That's what's inside,
     But it doesn't matter
     Because people don't have the time
     To look past the soul;
     Only the outside---
     The shell of a being I once was.