I cry tears when i’m stationary

wait patiently for sadness,

or joy,

but this pit, a pool of emptiness is filled

with phantom, crocodile tears,

although these are real

this void, claims it has vacancy

but even on vacation 

volumes of salt water 

from the corner of my eyes

i should be sad, mad

but i don’t feel bad

just empty

like id rather be on a plane

not to be taken away

but on a different one

between life and death

where worries absent,

but so am i, from the present

saying my life is a gift

but gifts bring joy and gratitude

but the magnitude of emotion overwhelming

a concoction of everything and nothing

all at once and frozen in time

take me to a place where i live forever,

where forever is a second

where forever is for everyone

stuck in themselves but I’m sitting 

on a shelf next to a nicer book

who gets read because of its cover

I want to cover my eyes

because why do I feel empty

my sadness relative to my experience

don’t say everything is okay

if it was i wouldn’t be plucking out tissues

or my hair

if it was i wouldn’t want to be at destination 

nothingness

“there’s war and starvation and so many worse things”

then why do I feel so empty

like a bucket that no one wants to fill

like a book that doesn’t want to be written

piano that doesn’t want to be played

a hand that doesn’t want to be shaken

a person.