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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required I don't know why I feel so hollow. I do the inventory, and all the parts are there. My heart still beats, my lungs fill, my blood still makes its rounds. And yet, I just feel empty, eviscerated, A shell of something almost human. I prick a finger, and the pain is still sharp; My head aches, and my teeth from where I've ground them. There's nothing below the surface, though No pain, no feeling, nothing but and echo; A scream reverberating endlessly, A sound I don't remember making. My knees are feeling weak; my hands are numb. It's strange to be nothing but the physical, Incapable, yet functional. I can still make tea, Write a letter, sing a love song or lament But, I can neither enjoy nor despise it. It's all just incidental; the machine keeps humming, But there's nothing fundamental. The boundaries have all been crossed, Yesterday, when you just stopped, Leaving nothing but memories That are already half-forgotten, And an apple on your desk That I intend to leave until it rots. The sun rose today; I burned my fingers with a cigarette; Fragile things toppled, hit the ground, and shattered, And, come tomorrow, the exact same things will happen. The world keeps turning, as though it hasn't lost its axis, And I still feel nothing, but the echoes of your absence.
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