uselessness

my poetry is dead and I will follow soon my words haunt and I can no longer give them their weight I always thought I was an opener that I help those around me, with a word, with my presence, with an idea but everything was just an illusion at least if I could cry but my soul is drier than the desert barren land on which not even the dunes run I ground the meat of the words, keeping only the shell for the world my thoughts run wild to nowhere and yes, my poetry is dead. at least if I had the forgotness