Empty.

I’m empty.

Every evening after work,
I sit and stare at the walls,
Wondering what to paint,
Wondering where my words went,
Asking the void how I got lost.
And I see,
That I’m empty.

I’m empty,
But they say,

You’re half full. 

They say,

Don’t look at the other half.

They say,

You won’t break,
You’re strong.

But I know;
I’m empty.

I’m full of cowardice,
Full of anger undirected,
Of nonexistent faith,
Of pity at my skin, my teeth, my bones,
My very very core,
My fragile, cracked core.

They say,

Let us help you,
Let us see you,
Open up,
Open up.

But I’m empty.
What do I show you?

I’m only some bit of air,
Some bit of agony,
Some liters of blood and flesh,
And then,
I’m just empty.
Just, empty.

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