Emptiness: What More Could A Doctor Desire?

It's when I'm here but not here

That it soothingly jabs

At the pit in my stomach,

Beckoning with a quaint, degrading tone:

 

“Come closer, listen up:

You cannot escape me.

Worthless, futile,

You're nothing but bone.

You're lucky this flesh

Separates me from you;

I'd tear you apart

If given the chance.”

 

It's a crumbling sensation

Followed by a hole

In my mind, a projection

Of a future where I grin.

It's a hassle to awaken

In a room full of shadow,

In a lucid nightmare

That grows hostile by the days.

 

And the days last so long,

Longer than dissented surgery

With my eyes ripped open,

The sluggish removal of my heart

Before my unfocused sight.

 

The days won't pass.

The clocks are mindless figures

In the background retreat

Of my peripheral desecration.

 

My weakness is my folly

Is my failure is my disbelief

In the present and in the past

And in the oncoming future;

The future tends to strike me

Like a scalpel to the chest,

Without warning or symptom.

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