There’s this space in my chest
that fills me.
Existing heavily and thoroughly.
Maybe it’s the lack of sleep
making me crazy.
My body existing around the abyss,
paradoxically consumed by its essence.
Inside of me but not of me.
Of me, but my dreams are not part of the recipe.
My dreams absorbed or worn like skin, but just the beginnings survive.
The ends may yet live in the blackness or just beyond it.
Inside of my hollow chest is weighted nothingness.
Or inside of the hollow nothingness, I exist?
How can one know if in the abyss?
I’ve never known how to point to something
that was formless.
I cannot wait to breath, yet all I do is wait for the next inhale.
I want silence, but everything screams it’s presence.
I want love but would settle for contempt.
I want peace but would settle for adrenaline.
I want meaning but would settle for the end of it.
Spitting bars about the end of it.
Whispering I just want a friend in it.