i often feel empty,
and so i try to pour my thoughts
down through writing things
for maybe it can help me
remember what to feel
once i have stated them on the paper.
but even writing—the only thing
that i can do and be proud of—still
sometimes fails me. that, no matter how
long or short, or poetic or simple,
or cringe or crazy it is,
it still can’t reach the core
of my emptiness.
it’s because i thought that digging
deeper is the only way for me
to discover the things that hide
below the surface.
but it seems like even a thousand words
can’t explain how it feels like
to be left alone in your head,
surrounded by four white walls,
one bed on one corner,
you wearing waistcoat.
not even this prose
can ever justify how dull it is in my world,
and at the same time
chaotic.
my lips will never learn
how to utter even a single syllable.
and people will never know
what kind of hell i am going through
because they can’t understand
the code in the pattern
of the beat of my heart,
and i won’t let them hear it
either.
i often feel empty.
how often is that?
every day.
and writing,
oh, the ability to write
can’t even help.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Puisi"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
