Dead
This was either written my sophomore or junior year of high school.
Turn to page on in this book of my life.
My pages are empty,
My ink is pure white.
I have only written what I feel.
What I feel is nothing.
Not love, not happiness, nor even hope.
Not hate, not depression, not anger at you.
To fell you have to have a heart.
I tore mine out and fed it to the dogs.
It is better to feel nothing
Than to feel hands of torment
Clawing at your skin and tearing at your brains.
What is love without hate?
What is passion without lust?
What is joy without despair?
What is hope without rage?
Only a fool could dream this up.
I guess I am that lonely fool.
Who dares to dream rather than see.
Who writes of the feelings she cannot have.
Who writes of herself as though she were dead.
Every person must have a soul to feel good and bad.
I am no longer human,
For though my body is here,
My soul is dead.
Turn to page on in this book of my life.
My pages are empty,
My ink is pure white.
I have only written what I feel.
What I feel is nothing.
Not love, not happiness, nor even hope.
Not hate, not depression, not anger at you.
To fell you have to have a heart.
I tore mine out and fed it to the dogs.
It is better to feel nothing
Than to feel hands of torment
Clawing at your skin and tearing at your brains.
What is love without hate?
What is passion without lust?
What is joy without despair?
What is hope without rage?
Only a fool could dream this up.
I guess I am that lonely fool.
Who dares to dream rather than see.
Who writes of the feelings she cannot have.
Who writes of herself as though she were dead.
Every person must have a soul to feel good and bad.
I am no longer human,
For though my body is here,
My soul is dead.