Heart of Moss

Emptiness

Emptiness.

This is what I feel.
I no longer itch for pleasure.
I always feel as though in a black spiraling hole.
Stuck an lost never awakening from my slumber.
Emptiness.
I feel like a boiling pot of anger about to spill like a volcano.
Yet never do because it is subdued by my emptiness.
I am drunk on the sadistic, melancholy life I am living.
I am learning to love the essential silence.
How a pin could drop and I could hear the sound of it ricochetting off of the walls before hitting my ears, making my empty heart warm at the lovely sound of enveloping silence.

Emptiness.
Alone at my own will
Yet still craving for a fulfillment but can't quite put my finger on it.
I can never finish things.

I'm writing this now trying to figure out ways to end this without taking a step towards Edgar Allen Poe's weary, scary words. I don't want to slip back into my evil unconscious poetry dripping of depression and hints of death.

Emptiness.

Putting on a tight smile or a loose grimace.

Fight through everyday appearing as fine yet inside you body is just empty, slowly working by itself.
It's waiting patiently for you to find an object of interest but this item never comes.

Emptiness.
The hardest addiction to overcome yet the most comfortable feeling of all.