I write these words and wonder what they mean, I echo the empty, all I am washed clean.
I write these words and fill a void I feel, I echo the empty, I attempt to exist, feel I am real.
One man once said “I think therefore I am” but the thoughts I have make me wonder what is real.
So I sit here, crying and in tears, writing words that mean nothing, showing what I feel.
I write these words, I fill the void, I echo the empty, trying to believe I matter, that I’m real.
But in the end the words are empty, thoughts on a page, quickly turned, quicker burned, and one wonders what the point of it was at all.
Still, I must echo the empty, in denial of what I feel. I must make an attempt, an effort to fill the void, to prove at least to me, that I do exist, that I am real.