Blank Slate


Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

I am nothing but a blank slate.
Nobody around wants to know my state.
Deteriorating, draining, at an average pace.
The hole belonging to my soul is but an empty space.
Am I tired? Am I weak?
Am I rejoicing? Am I at my peak?
I could be terrified, I could be at peace.
Only aware that all senses have ceased.
I am not bored, I am not at rest.
Maybe now I feel a slight ache in my chest.
Possible, a slight burn of hot iron in my being.
Just the color black, heated up, is all I am seeing.
There’s nothing to claw at the wall.
No spirit to flutter on the ceiling.
No apparition to appear down the hall.
No fears to be feeling.
I have swallowed my heart, my mind then to follow.
I am a living corpse, ever pale and hollow.
Behind my eyes, the light grows dim.
As I become numb, limb by limb.
There is no quiver, no tremble or sound.
I am formally unaware if my feet hit the ground.
Nobody will know, nobody has cared.
Little do they know, they just have been spared.
Not an ear to listen when I speak.
Not a hand to help when you’re known as a freak.
Lonely and lowly, I waste away with a pencil in hand.
With this last paper, maybe just one could understand.
Look through time and space, through light and through dark.
Take a look around, find those withering apart.