Empty AngerFor all intents and purposes, I am dead. My heart beats and I still breathe. I eat, but I am dead. As hollow as the grave.They call it depression, this emptiness, this lack of motivation.
All I have are my words, so easily stolen.
Passed off as another’s.
But it is all I have.
So I write.
Do the dead write?
In their crypts and their fetid tombs
Do they write?
Does the wasting of their flesh paint an ink upon the page of time?
Or are they silent?
Am I silent? I watch and I observe, but I have few opinions of my own.
I have aligned myself with no political party; I have no one to make opinions for me.
I am dead, but so are you.
None of this means anything.
A mouse click.
You think you change the world?
The world will change you
Force you to the ways of the masses
Who is your shepherd?
I have no presumptions that these words will change you or your way of thinking. They won’t. I know that, but I still write them.
I have to.