May 17, 2021
1 min read
Empathic
Poetry
The sounds make a distorted reverberated base
fighting against the wind in the trees.
I cannot hear my thoughts, let alone my voice.
Am I alive or am I dead?
I can feel the parts that are torn inside,
where a chunk was taken
and not returned.
Where I left part of my energy on the table
— let go of that part of myself.
