• Nobody knows what to say to me anymore,
    am I as perfect as nothing—
    if there’s nothing left to say?

    A poem,
    is said to be based on the Heart’s impulse
    and never the Mind’s lie.
    I’d rather believe it as true,
    but I’m not innocent enough to try.

    Seasons are coming and going,
    yet I wonder why I even try
    when I am living in a world
    where the only living ones must die.

    Surely as the leaves do fall
    self-absorption has conquered us all.
    As consequently as time passes by
    my feelings are just a suppressed lie.

    I can’t seem to forget the past,
    though I promised I’d try,
    I’m living in a predetermined fate
    of which my only choice is to abide.

    I am the only living in this place,
    loathing every lie I say
    just to keep a smile on your face,
    through each passing day.

    The Heart’s impulse is really
    the abiding to a lie—
    the Mind’s simple doing,
    severing every tie.

    So perhaps my nothingness is perfection,
    since nothing is left to say
    except this increasing emptiness,
    listlessly melting me away.

    I promised you I’d try.
    I touched you,
    But every word was another lie.