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