Anyone who reads the title first, «keeps me going.», expects comfort: a person, a song, some small hope that carries a speaker through bad days. Gigi's poem holds that answer back until the final line, and when it arrives it is the opposite of comfort. What keeps the speaker going is "hatred, anger", the same kind of words the poem has spent seven lines listing as suffering. The central idea is uncomfortable and honest: the things that hurt can also be the things that keep a person upright, and the poem does not pretend otherwise.
Nothing is given about who Gigi is or when the poem was written, and the poem doesn't need it. Everything is on the page. It is built like a call and response. Lines one, three, five and seven are bare pairs of words, and lines two, four, six and eight are short statements that comment on them. Every line ends in a full stop, there are no questions or exclamation marks, and even "i" is lowercase. The voice is flat, like someone reading out a report on their own life, and the small "i" quietly suggests a speaker who won't grant themselves even a capital letter. There is no rhyme and no regular metre. The rhythm comes from the clipped pairs, which land like two hammer beats: FEAR, FRIGHT-en. The comma between the words acts as a tiny pause, as if the speaker reaches for the right word, fails to find it, and simply piles on a second.
The pairs are not just synonyms. "fear, frighten" sets an emotion beside the act that produces it. "lost, betrayed" are past participles, things that have happened to the speaker. "sad, alone" are plain states. "hatred, anger" are nouns, things a person can hold. Read this way, the list moves from being acted upon toward owning something, and the last pair is the only one with any heat in it.
The statements between the pairs are just as carefully shaped. "everyday i feel these things" is deliberately vague. "these things" points at the pile of words like a hand waving at a mess, and "everyday", written as one word, makes the suffering a routine. Then comes a shift from feeling to knowing: "i know very well i am." The phrase "very well" has a defensive ring, as though someone has tried to argue the speaker out of it. The sentence also ends on "am" and leaves the missing word, "lost, betrayed", to the line above, as if the speaker can't bear to say it twice. "my never ending emptiness inside" has no verb at all, which suits it, since nothing happens in an emptiness. The soft, repeated sounds of "never ending emptiness" make the line trail on, and the possessive "my" shows it is something lived with, almost owned.
The last line is the only one in which anything moves. "keeps" is the poem's one active verb about the speaker's survival, and "going" is its one word of motion. Everything before it is static: states, feelings, a void. The first forward movement is powered by hatred and anger. There is also a quiet logic in setting these against an emptiness: they are hot, crowded emotions, and they may be what fills the space. That is an inference, but the poem's arrangement invites it. "the only two things" matters too, because it narrows eight words down to two. The grammar slips as well ("things that keeps"), and whether or not that was intended, it leaves the voice unpolished and spoken rather than composed.
What makes the poem significant is its refusal to console. Plenty of writing about hardship rushes toward hope. Here, with eight short lines, no metaphors and almost no ornament, the speaker names what is actually holding them up, and it is not gentle. The poem never says whether this is good or bad, and it leaves the reader with a harder question: what does it mean to be sustained by the very feelings that cause pain? Its plainness is its strength, because nothing stands between the speaker and the reader.