What Emptiness Feels Like
There are nights when dreams sit still ... un-moving ... damp and cold.
It is an emptiness, a pit darker then brick black.
It is not a nightmare that wakes the sleeping self, but the awareness that the self is lonesome. Bold in dripping solitude that leaves the spirit twined with doubt and silendespairre.
It is like knowing sadly that there are not really monsters under the bed or in the closet, but more like a death grip of smokey hands that won't let the body go. No noise to light the way. No picking yourself up. No turning a frown upside down.
Life doesn't wake to sunshine on the face. Warmth doesn't dry the tears that come. Broken masterpeices paint the coming day.
Drip ... drip ... drip ... the heart seconds on the begging clock, the pleas of it to strike the future with some sort of reason to happy and hopeful.
Only messes mixed mashed. Only unsettling fear. Only lack of solid breath breathed. Soaked in the illusion of self-projection on everything else around, but the truth in the reallity that the self is truly unique with passion and love.
These wonders of light and songs sang, are just filled with aching sadness, and it is unknown as to why.
"there are not really monsters under the bed or in the closet, but more like a death grip of smokey hands that won't let the body go"
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Sorry for the late response, this was due to the new HF...
I want to say thank you for reading my poem. I take it that this is your favourite part?
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