Don't want to think,
don't want to move.
Don't want to feel,
every scratch and groove,
in my worn down defenses,
I built up so high,
hoping that someday;
I would touch the sky.

I wonder sometimes,
If people actually care for what I say,
Or if I'm just writing, toiling away,
For nothing.
The thoughts always swirl,
my head is a constant mess.
Does anyone care?
I write for the joys,
but also for the cold pain;
To become hollow.

As I type, as I write sometimes,
I ponder my existence.
I try to view the world in a different way.
I can't see friends as friends,
but people;
Acquaintances.

It seems I subconsciously try to block myself out,
From this cold, cold world.
Though I was indeed made for it,
like an Eskimo.