Frustration in two parts

What is there left to write
when I have convinced myself
that I don't feel?
No more emo - kill me please.
I can't listen to songs I
clung to when I was
happy, or those I lived on
when I was sad. I want
anger, I want burning, I want
yelling and loud power chords.
I want Anarchy in the U.K,
I want to Smell Like Teen
Spirit, I want Guns of Brixton
right now.
I want the volume at eleven so you
can't hear me when I
scream.
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Cut me open, please, look at me raw
and glistening. Can you feel it?
Can you feel me?
Rip me away, please, touch me bleached
and glowing. Can your ears detect the humming?
Is that me that you hear singing?
Throw me outside, please, taste me tart
and spoiling. Can you live with this?
Can you live with me?
Push me to the ground, please, know me true
and lying. Can you ever count this?
Can you count me as anything?
Torture me so beautifully, please, tell me soft
and shunning. Can you force your lips to part?
Can you force them to speak to me?
Puncture me so pretty, please, inject me cold
and killing. Can you cover this hole with sticks and grass?
Can you not fall into me?
Bury me in the ground, please, whisper me lovely
and crying. Can you give this a purpose?
Can you give me a meaning?