How do I feel empty all the time,
When I'm overdosing on feeling?
Why do I feel like a mime,
When all of my thoughts are dealing?
How ironic that my soul has nothing,
Meanwhile my illnesses are filling my mind.
How strange that I write about love when I'm incapable of loving.
Why is my existence ironic and unkind?
YOU ARE READING
Flying Whales
PoetryTwenty six letters repeated again and again to create a change in one's self. Poetry at its finest. Highest in poetry: #63 8/7/17
