I am alive.
But not living.
I am a shell.
Waiting.
And waiting.
To be full.
Just waiting.
And waiting.
But nothing comes.
I am not empty.
For I still have thoughts.
I think.
And think.
I wait
And wait.
For something.
Someone.
Anything.
Anyone.
To fill.
The gaping hole.
Inside.
So I stay.
Waiting.
And waiting.
Because I'm still alive.
And not living.
YOU ARE READING
Glass
PoetryEveryone is glass, so easily broken, so hard to fix. Warning: This book may contain triggering subjects. Read at your own will and risk.