Hey I can write again..and no its not happy. (Poem is untitled)

My soul is maimed, tattered and torn, it is only pain I know, no wish to gain, no drive to know, just a ceaseless void, and empty cold.

I clutch it close, this cold I hold, this life line to existence, the only way I know, the only way to live, to endlessly exist, to hurt and withhold, to be maimed and cold, to exist instead of live, no life to call my own.

My soul is maimed, tattered and torn, it is only pain I know, no wish to gain, no drive to know, just a ceaseless void, and empty cold.

This empty cold, this pain, this tattered soul, this my life, my home. With no love to claim, and no true home, I wander lost, with no wander lust, no drive to continue, no passion to warm my weary soul. I want to stop, I want to cease and end, for this life to be over.

I want to end, I want to stop, to stop the pain and end the cold, to no longer hurt, to no longer be so dreadfully alone.

The empty cold is gone, the pain no more, my life is fleeing, in this barren land, this empty waste, with no home to claim, no drive to wander I lay my head to sleep, to rest and cease, to cease to screaming inside my head, to quiet to pain of my spirit. I wanted to leave it, leave it behind and call it an end, so I stopped, I let my self be carried away, quietly into that dark. To know no more, this pain, this cold, this maimed and tattered soul I could my home, and oh so sadly, called my own.