My body moves from room to room
My mind thinks, unobstructed
I eat and drink and wake and sleep
I work and play and work again
And yet
I am completely, entirely, pathetically,

idle.

I walk and talk, and scan with my eyes
As if they weren't hollow inside
In truth, even if I had life enough to run
I would still be consumed by a stillness, because

Dear friend, I feel precisely
                                         nothing
                                                  at
                                                      all.

Don't be deceived.
I am as empty as i have ever been,
And ever could be.