I had torn open a wound;
Stitches made of gold
Medicine smeared of silver.
When it bled, it bled sounds;
Sounds of old people talking,
Sounds of young ones panting,
Voices of bright and dark colors,
Voices of you and me.

This wound,
This wound was mine and yours,
A depth measured by the words we fired at each other.

It had healed, maybe,
But I had a blade,
A brand new edge,
And I hacked at the golden threads,
I washed the silver away.

Here it is,
The open wound,
The loud, bleeding wound.

…I’m no doctor,
I’m just an assistant,
A slave,
A slave to my mind.



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.