Please help

I feel so empty, I cannot describe

It’s a mess, this thing that I call a life.

It’s eating away at me, black inside

Destroying me, controlling as I slide.

Down to the blackest depths, clouds all around

Impossible to see or make a sound.

Coughing out loud, I’ve suffered for so long

Crimson fills my hands, something must be wrong.

Pointless, destitute, feelings that one has

Exhaling smoke, cold reflecting on past.

Friends, what are they? Absent in time of need

Always there for a handout, with their greed.

Unneeded scum, better off that I’m dead

At least I have no shame, hanging my head.

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Phil lister 02/06/18

listerspoetry@gmail.com