Eight Three Five

I can't edit PoetryMarathon. Too big, or my computer just has stupid problems. Move it to the main page, if you like, or don't. Don't care much either way.

EightThreeFive

 So I try,
 though I don't know why I bother anymore.
 Act like everything's normal.
 Don't care anymore.
 I get hungry
 and don't eat
 because I don't feel like it
 and I don't care anyway.
 Why bother.
 No drive left to do anything.
 running only on old habit. 
 Sleeping more.
 I'm lonely.
 I miss trusting.
 I miss you
 and you
 and you 
 and you 
 and most of all you.
 It's not really much of a poem
 is it.
 Don't care.
 It's words
 empty feeling
 and more than I've put here in awhile.
 A good place for words,
 because they're truthful here.
 It'd be a painful ramble
 not a poem
 if there was any feeling left.
 But there isn't.
 Just numb.
 And if I come out of denying it
 perhaps a little despair.

~Qete~ who signs her name, not bravely, but because...well...just because. Don't care.