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Amy Lowell
The noise of the city sounds below me.
It clashes against the houses
And rises like smoke through the narrow streets.
It polishes the marble fronts of houses.
Grating itself against them.
And they shine in the lamplight
And cast their echoes back upon the asphalt of the streets.
But I hear no sound of your voice.
The city is incoherent — trivial.
And my brain aches with emptiness.
Squat bottle.
Who drained its amnesia?
Organ pipe.
Why emit so high a C?
Empty bud.
Where did the flower open
its red petals?
Molted exoskeleton.
What imago wouldn’t flee
such a narrow corpse?
I should have warned
you in the beginning:
I’m a matryoshka—
a series of hollow shells
ultimately leading to nothing.
I'm just a random girl
Who is lost
in her own thoughts
I'm a failed teenager
With a disoriented life
I'm such a mess that
Even I can't find
the old me
I'm just a immature girl
Who erased her old self
And now everything
remaining In her is
emptiness and dark
I am empty .
Theres nothing special about me.
I am just here .
Of course you don't notice me ,
sometimes I barely notice me too .
It's like I am not even alive
sometimes.
It's like I am a ghost .
You never know they're there .
They could be sitting right next to you .
Empty , like the bottle .
Empty , like my stomach .
Empty , my heart
after you .
It is an interesting feeling,
Feeling nothing.
When something should send you reeling,
You stare blankly into the abyss.
Perhaps you've seen it before?
Perhaps not.
Maybe it's all that you abhor,
But it's been dulled down far enough.
The thunderous roar of the party;
And yet,
You've decided rather smartly
You'd rather be somewhere else.
It's not happiness, no;
Just noise.
Finding somewhere to go,
But it won't leave you alone;
I am nothing.
Cold.
Useless.
Invisible.
Above watered
Surfaces I float.
Saturated
In tiny specks
That lie under
Me as I devote
All my wasted energy
On: people,
Projects I abhore.
When I cut off: all the
Necessary
People,
As I lay here I am blank
I have no real purpose and a thousand worries
Without much faith I try to cry
I'm tired of feeling
I'm tired of everything
I'm just trying to cry
Thoughts easily overlap each other
No real purpose in life
I try to cry
But I have run dry
I don’t want to get up and out of bed,
no good reason comes to my liquid head.
Yes there’s some food and water too,
and of course the required trip to the loo.
It feels like a light heavy weight,
right inside my aching empty chest.
I guess I’ll just have to again wait,
to be down and out with the rest.
That’s really not much of an issue,
because it’s something i’m used to.
Just be glad it only happens me,
it’s much easier to look but not see.
nothing special
an empty birdhouse beneath
an overcast sky
up on stilts
an empty fishing shack
under spring trees
off center
the empty clay pot
beside the doorstep