When the anger that fuels the passion dies down,
When the boiling blood thickens so it can write no more,
I’d lie as the husk of my previous self,
Devoid of all words and ink,
Used up by flame that consumed my mind,
Hollowed up, with nothing behind.
When all hate leaves and nothing stays,
Not even one comes to replace,
I’d be lost with no purpose– what now?
Trapped in the limbo of my own making,
The mediocrity of the mind, and hypocrisy of the heart–
It leaves me hurting;
I’ll live hurting.
When all are but stories to tell someone,
A dismembered you, known by none,
It’ll be the air that makes you look back,
And the dark that’ll hide what you’ll never unpack.
And you’ll wish it’s over, but it isn’t.
Is it, or isn’t not?
I probably have missed it.