When I say I'm empty, I am not.
I'm bothered. I'm ragged.
I am soaked with so many thoughts.
I can't quite understand why I'm drenched in my own anxiety.
I stare at a cream-tainted wall,
so aware of how boxed I am.
How limited my choices are.
How scarce my opportunities.
I continue being on asylum,
it's only me who attest
to my talents and despair.
The emptiness makes my head hurt.
Like my skulls hitting the moon,
This stress and the sharpened gloom,
makes me worry, causing dread.
It makes me dislike the thought
of consuming water or mere bread.
But in despite of all of this,
I still have a fetish for being empty.
It fills me in. Though at first it tears my soul,it places an artist in me.
Conscious of life. Those things,
we usually do not notice when we are happy.
Call me a fool whose mouth drools,
like the feeling of being empty.
It's a feeling that gives me that plight.
Of all these things that are vacant in me
are the same things that fill my paper.
These things that keeping my left hand inked.