Sometimes I feel like
I’m stuck in a dark cage
With nothing for company
But a tiny, tiny flame.

It gives off
a comforting warmth.
It’s nice having company,
But still, I am torn.

I fear for the day
It’ll extinguish in a second or half.
I would feel not but sorrow,
For I do not have

A lighter, or a matchbox
To bring back its light.
What can I do,
If not, beg to keep it alight?

Nothing cannot exist
When there is a lump of nothing, a void of nothing, something always comes to fill it
Nothing  cannot remain, nothing cannot thrive, nothing is not forever
Perhaps nothing can exist, but only for a short time


I feel empty, numb, void of emotion, but nothing cannot exist
Nothing greets existence
The void welcomes anything and everything to fill it
So what fills it?


I feel nothing, I dont care, but suddenly, the world comes crashing in
I am sobbing and the world is crumbling
Everything is so meaningful and impactful, but all in the wrong ways, and I will never recover


Then I am angry, more livid than anyone ever has been
Why me? Who would do this? I dont deserve to feel this way.
I want to set the world ablaze, me along with it

Then nothing,
Everything is fine, I shouldn't care and I dont
Everything is fine, I am void of care or emotion, the world is what it is

I am hollow, and although nothing cannot exist, hollow follows me
The floating, empty, hollow of my stomach, stays
Even when im sobbing
Even when im angry
and especially when “i dont care”

Being numb is “easy”
It protects me from the world and myself
But is it really?
Because nothing, cannot exist

When I feel, it is with unknown strength and uncontrollable power
Overwhelming
insatiable


People say that numbness is empty, aimless, void
They feel nothing and nothing hurts
But I've never understood that

My numbness comes in crashing waves
And it never lasts long
It invites pandemonium and nurtures chaos

But can I stop it?  No
Can I personally invite emotion back? No
Can I convince numbness to leave? Never

I am at the mercy of numbness
As much as I wish I could feel true nothing
Nothing cannot exist

A sagging Gladius wallows inside me, limply,
It's rotting in its own wretched flaccidity,

I see others around me nurturing bounds of fruitful irises,
Some even mother sycamore, burgeoning with vigour, effortless as chaste kisses,

Tender fertilizer blots my chin in a bloodied marling,
I ingest the stolen soil, even when I feel the white sting of my innards' snarling,

So I'll inject myself with litres upon litres of putrid compost,
Only for my gladius to continuing shrivelling within my innermost,

It's stem-deep in nutrients, and is none the less decayed,
Atop the valley, even in the passing June, it stays, wilted withered and frayed,

Now, all I'm left with is the curdle of wetland moss festering in my blood,
Weighted with this fetidity, I let my gladius go, dead, in peace and clotted mud.