What is this that I feel?
This weighted emptiness?
As if the wait itself is filled with meaninglessness.
…
What is this that I feel?
This quiet anguish?
As if the stillness itself is filled with angriness.
…
What is this that I feel?
These unbalanced paradoxes?
As if sanity itself laid in bed with confusion.
…
What is this that I feel?
This illusive fascination?
As if the darkness itself is inviting me in.
…
What is this that I feel?
This vexing confrontation?
As if listening to my heart itself breaks my promises.
…
What is this that I feel?
This incoherent expression?
As if writing itself ends with a fragmented reflection.
VoraXious 