It scares me
That this empty,
disturbingly vacant feeling
seemingly rooted in
my gut
can only be temporarily
sated.

What more is it going to take?
What more can I do?
Because my ulterior forms of escape
are encapsulated within
*****
drugs
people
hate
love
wispy smoke
clouded dreams
warm cups of coffee that burns the throat if sipped too quickly

And those silly,
frivolous
mechanisms of coping
do less
than water slipping through open fingers.

My apathetic attitude
Has been finely tuned.