I’m a shell of a man,
In this shell of a world,
Surrounded by nothingness.

And it is this shelled life we live in,
In such a vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.

But our shells are not the one which lives inside,
The five senses know not of who that shell can hide.

For some of us fill the shell to the brim with alcohol,
Til they drown the one within.

While others mutilate the shell in fiery destruction,
Finding not what is lacking beneath.

Some starve the shell down to a much thinner lining,
Suffocating the air for the internal.

Some shells are altered in design and decoration,
Rendering what feels as difference.

While the others that have kept original and the same,
Slowly grow in independence.

When we fall -crack- and our true selves leak out,
Some run and hide the broken; faking in disguise til repair.

When we can’t escape judgement for the innate shell and/or the cracks we bear,
Some leave the shells found hanging in closets or simply lying warm gun in hand.

Forgetting our gift of common sense we lack as a whole,
We define each other with what only our five senses show.

For I've found I’m a man in a shell,
In this awful illusion of a shell,
Surrounded by ignorance.

And it is this shelled world we create,
In this vast shelled void,
That makes us feel so empty.