My Inner Workings

Evidence

'I appear to be boring when I'm not in pain
I write better when my hands are chained'

You know that place in you're head.
That dark place that resides in the human.
A place of melancholy and silence.
A place where nothing is really wrong but nothing is really right either.
A place of wondering with out really being lost or being lost but having no where to wonder to.
A place for rethinking the conversation of the day and days and years before.
A place for when you don't wanna close your eyes but you don't want to open them either.

A place for laying down and looking at nothing, thinking of nothing, feeling like nothing.
A place just a pain short for real pain and a joy short for real joy.
A place of mere existence, in that place, in that time.
A place of feeling like one is but merely a vessel, a carrier for a soul that should've existed.
Like one is an avatar with an empty space where a heart should've been beating.
A place for a human body with no humanity, not a shred of evidence of being alive.
I take myself there sometimes.

I could tell you that I'm there to write, to be creative.
To have something to write about.
To keep my head producing sad words to finish that poem I started a year ago.
To connect memories with sharpened pencils.
To look into my void so I could draw it on paper.

But that wouldn't be true, at least not entirely.
You see, I go looking for evidence of life even tho it never actually gives a clear answer.
To connect to something even if that something is the shredded memory of what used to be an emotion.
How pathetic, the closest thing that I have to a feeling, is the feeling of wanting to feel.
The feeling of missing feelings.
I go for the feeling of longing for feelings, for humanity.
Just a gloom, a sombre state of mind.
I take myself there sometimes.