Empty

Someone asked what empty feels like. More rage than anger. More snare than drum. More rain than pour. I asked myself once, thinking just because I have a shadow. I'm worth following. Worth falling over tripping under and writing raw cut images. Pasting them because to me they match my performance. I can write, but I can't throw the punches. I can't laugh because boy, that was stupid. Cut and dry. It still hurts like orange juice in a womb. But why the fuck did I do it? To feel. To heal. To repeat and start over again. Not to touch myself, but maybe if I love myself better it actually happened. I was told I live in my head too much. I already know. I cut and dried, not to laugh, but to keep from crying. You get the point we told you enough. So enough? Why am I so hard to love? Maybe because it was a game to everyone, but me. I wanna be real. Seemed honest enough. How do you do it? Keep pushing move forward around and over. Treat me like I'm not here when you need me. I need me. I'm enough in the poetry, but too poet for poetry. At least I was honest. I need normal. I'm me with out the shades. I want to be seen. Even if the sun moves out the way. most of it is just anger, not directed at anyone, but myself I'm a healer. I can say that because I've through what I feel and still tried. I touch myself to feel boy or man. Someone saw me enough to say don't touch me. I get it. I'm sometimes the giant that I spit on too. IT's not cut and dry. It's dry and erase, but still wake up tomorrow to try again. I still wake up tomorrow to try again.