Friday, 5 October 2007

The Hollow seems a little desolate
It's hard sometimes not to look away
And think what's the point
when I'm having to hold this fire down
I think I'll explode
if I can't feel this freely now
A man lies in his bed in a room with no door
He waits hoping for a presence, something, anything to enter
After spending half his life searching, he still felt as blank
As the ceiling at which he stared
He is alive but feels absolutely nothing
So, is he?
Borrowed lines, stuck in the mind like a splinter. Is this what it has come to be? Or is it merely the power of suggestion?

Currently: whistling in the dark
Listening to: quiet tuneless attempts at melody

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