My Poetry Is Empty Because I’m Asleep

I Forget

So yes the end is near I know,
even if no Angel has even
deigned to cajole me to matter
like on a cable show, and
I don’t have a good and interesting
psychopathic profile to investigate

No blood stains of consequence.
No DNA to match.
Just a unique defect that
doesn’t match any other soul.

Such a big loneliness engulfs me, and
I’m already forgetting how many rejections
have made a suffocating envelope of
plastic pseudo-tolerance of me
as if I were human
as if I were not a
schadenfreude

I am tired of talking to myself because
I’ve heard it before, and
I don’t know if
I’m invisible or
empty, because

I don’t yet hear
the whispers of truth
that I am nothing
to comment on, and

I think I’d rather
go to sleep, and
hope I don’t wake up again
with cravings to seek you
the only love I ever had, because

I love you.

And yeah, I know it’s silly;
and yeah I know you never existed, so
to nobody in particular:
never-mind.

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