I'm feeling
Like an empty shell
But the core
Of nothingness
Is made out of
Pure sorrow

Empty
Is that the word?
It doesn't describe me
Hell, nothing does...
So I'll just
Keep doing
What I know best;

It's pretending
That I'm normal, even though
I am well aware that I'm not
And I was never near being normal
And I cannot be described by normal words

Empty...
Nostalgic. Melancholic. Sad. Depressed. Abyss. Apathy. Darkness.
Pretending to be
All that I'm not.
But, I don't know, what am I?

Empty...
Empty words can describe me.
But I cannot choose them myself;
If I could, what would I choose?
Maybe...
Dead?

I'm tired.
Exhausted.
Empty, inside.
Dead, inside.
Unable to be
The real me.

And it's wearing me down.
Every time I disappoint you.
Every time I'm empty.
Every time I'm not what I should be.
When I'm not enough.
And when I'm too much.

Empty words, empty head, empty promises, empty purpose, empty meaning, empty feelings.
Is that what you bring me down to?
Is that how you see me?
Empty, of humanity?

The words are echoing in my ears.
Empty.
That's the room I sit in.
That's the life I lead.
Maybe that's me.
Perhaps it is, when you don't see what I see.

Empty.
Happy, joyful, worryless.
Perfect, pretty, shallow.
Skillful, amazing, badass.
Crazy, mad, fun, reckless.
...but empty.

It's a mark you've made.
Are you happy?
That I'm empty?
That I'm turning into you?
Are you empty?
But am I?

A lot of people see me differently,
Like I just wrote.
Each line for one me.
Wait, I write?
Why didn't you write it down?
Because I had to write, EMPTY, twice?

So are you looking
At this empty moon tonight?
Are you staring at the starless sky?
Are you partying in your empty house?
Are you crying, in your room, or in  your empty soul?

Have you been feeling empty recently?
Is it contagious?
Do you feel sorry?
Did you mean everything you told me?
Did this world mean to hurt me?

Am I empty?
Is the world empty?
What's my empty purpose?
Is it to be empty?
Is it to be me,
Or is it to be you?

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

Your dazzling light
Was all I saw,
All I remember.

The image is burning
In my mind everyday,
Stamped by your words
In my canvas of misery.

And so, at last,
Hell's flame you left in me
Will never leave my head
The way you left me.

I see a silver glint
on your wrist, the
blood merely falling
off your lips

dropping a drop,
  one, two,
falling at the floor,
   three, four,
your eyes gazing at mine,
   five, six,
-do you still hate me,
      ...even now?-

when you opened
your skin
a trail of
quicksilver ran
and I heard the sound;

  seven, eight,
your brown, golden and green eyes,
  nine, ten,
I don't feel very
real, right now


   nine, eight
you once were happy
   seven, six
could we go back in time?
    five, four,
you put the blade back down
    three, two,
I love you as much as I do now,

   one; I am still alive.

another day has passed.
a day closer to the black sky.
and you read poetry today.
you read a book today.
But, what trace have you left on this planet, today?

Who will acknowledge it? Will you be misunderstood? Will a young boy with curly brown hair and silver eyes weep over your words for a hundred years, while listening to our now vintage songs?

Will anyone remember you? Will you matter, after the Earth makes hundreds of thousands of spins around the Sun, which perhaps is circling around something bigger? Will you reincarnate? Will you be alive? Will you just disappear, or will you stick around?

Is there hope for humanity, is there hope for immortality? Will they enable people to live forever, to find a way to break nature, a year after you die? Will people still follow the same traditions, as they do today, will families have lunch together like their ancestors used to have?

Will there be depressed children, stressing and crying and cutting themselves because nobody would believe when they say "It's too much"? Will people still be stuck in the circle of melancholy and nostalgy, held captured by the never-ending routine when the first thing they do in the morning is ask themselves " Is this worth it? Do I really have to go to work? Perhaps I should end this, maybe it'll be easier then?"

Will people still break under their masks that they hold with trembling hands, grasping the clay so hard that their nails break and their fingers bleed, just so their kids couldn't discern what's underneath it?

Will everything stay the same and nothing improve? Will there be a catastrophy and expunge you, the one writing this, the gorgeous stranger you met on the street on a cold winter evening five years ago? Will it also wipe out your elementary school teacher, wipe out the florist from who you bought that flower for your first love and a rose for your mother?

Will people change, mentally and physically evolve along with our brains? Will the names we have to learn by heart - Darwin, Watt, Dante, Boccaccio and Einstein become irrelevant comparing to the inventions that are yet to come? Will somebody prove they were wrong, will somebody speak badly of them? Will someone still adore Dante's Heaven and Hell as much as I do? Will people analyse poetry the way I do? Will anyone ever feel the way you do?
Will anyone ever make a decision like you did, will anyone look up to you?

Is there a reason to be stressed and depressed, when all of this won't last? Is there a point in searching for the meaning of life rather than picking a reason to live that satisfies you both mentally, emotionally and physically?

Will people have passion and hate and freedom of expression, will they be bold or will they become faded? Lost? Encouraged or enraged?

Well you'll never know.

And that's hard to grasp.