Jan 6
I don't feel so empty like the people say.
Never really felt that 'abyss' sort of way.
It isn't cold and dark, inside my head.
Not rather sad, nor full of dread.
Instead it's quite chaotic,
And simply plain erratic.
My brain is always in motion.
My heart a stormy ocean.
Body lazed by a sleeping potion.
Inside a swirling ball of commotion.
What a curious notion.
That one can feel every emotion.
A great humongous blaze of intent.
Of future days and hours spent.
A weaving, looping thing that went.
And came back later to ferment.
This poem only the tiniest segment,
Of threads tying my torment.
An affair unexplainable.
From an outsider, uninterpretable.
I know not origins of it's birth.
Nor how it removes my worth.
But I can't recall a time before.
And can only imagine there'll be more.
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Poetry For The Lost People
Poetry365 observations and comments about society, life and love throughout 2022. Come with me on my journey day by day, as I write what I've always wanted to say. There is no method or planning, just thoughts and perceptions about the way of the world. A...
