Who Am I

My words are the only weapons left
my fists are broken
my legs long grown numb
dulled from the steps
over ashen earth
trampled underfoot that in these 18 years
I have taken ultimately to no where, yet!

my arms too weary, heavy
like hardened pine
fossilized after a million years
of having witnessed first hand decay for so long
that nothing now seems closer to home
than anything else I've ever felt

so who am i now, but my words?
that on this, another night in late fall,
the summer sun long since gone
from over this field of vision
clouded by depressed notions of myself
and the world entire
that i too have grown depraved
tired really of bearing this burden,
this pain of existence,
the paradox of my own consciousness,
that i can at once feel so obviously
that i must be something
thinking something
or else i would be nothing absolute
comity ergo sum
it seems must be the one truth i seek

while at the same time
understanding the very nature
of my freedom to think
to feel, to exist at all
is so directly linked to the simple fact
that i very obviously
could very easily
not think
not feel, not exist at all
leaving me then as nothing

and so always i am left wondering
searching, wandering endlessly
through the nihilistic vacancy
that is the torn up terrain
of my ever evolving brain that has become so tired
of having to think
of having to be anything
at all
so all that exists of anything...are my words!

these thoughts thrown together
on this once empty legal pad
yellow stained,
serve to keep record of exactly how i felt at this moment
06.22.05
11:28 p.m.
and this is all i have
left with only my words
the one weapon to ease my pain
to combat my mind
that burns like a sacred candle
holding vigil over the death
of my own innocence
of whose presence i was never aware
until i felt it go forever from me
as all things must ultimately pass
into the fragmented mosaic of fleeting memories
that, try as they do, can never
fully recall the precise purity,
the truth essence,
of any specific time or space

so again, there remains only my words
that now i can't even speak
there are no ears to hear them
and even if there were thousands
these words would still go forever unheard
because i myself am vacant
no matter how full my words may be of meaning
that i could feel like this
emptied of myself, slowly
never all at once it seems
so that even my best friend
serves to make me feel small
because the nature of her
is to make herself full
while all i can do
is cast hopelessness
and reflect on me only
how empty i feel because of her
the reflection of myself in her mirror
that on her face
i should see myself as something more
but all i see is so much less
that i exist only as a hollow shell
that at this moment
may as well be filled with shit or gold
i suppose it doesn't matter anyway

the use of both this fantasy
and my present reality?
one and the same
because i have to ask myself
what good be these words
that whether written or spoke
will forever go unheard!