My mouth is dry,
And I'm hollow, like a cleaned out nutshell.
I'm hollow, like how I imagined the clouds woudn't be.
And above all things, I'm scared.
Scared and scarred,
Useless and beat.
My life, well, it seems previously planned,
Like I have no option of choosing my own option.
And I'm still scared.
I'm scared of tomorrow,
I'm scared of yesterday,
And today, well, I didn't choose.
My mouth is getting drier
And I'm hypervigilant--losing my mind.
The world is closing in on me, like dew drops on forgotten foliage.
I'm anxious, nervous, and frankly my face doesn't feel right.
I am weeping,
And somehow OK with it.
How do you describe sadness without sounding so cliche?
I've been ravaged, worn out, torn down, mistaken,
And the sensations are creeping
Taking away a little more of what is all dried out.
Writing into my spirit,
Giving me the false truth that I am (or have?) nothing anymore.
Do you know what you're doing?
Do you feel real?
Well, good. Because I don't.
And thanks to that sick son of a bitch that ruined me too soon,
I sound pathetic,
But speak a version of truth.
And this version is full of things I've been told, or told myself.
But in the end I've felt them,
Chosen to share them,
And have realized I've failed them,
Because I can't explain them well enough.
Now, my body is dry,
And I'm hollow.
Just like you've always wanted.