To deal with

I live, yet I am dead, there is only death within me.

There is no spark of joy, no zeal or zest for life.
My heart is black ink, my mind is an empty candy jar.

I am weighed down by the darkness; that which is myself.
An anger for being angry about a bird with no wings.
Like a song with no words, and yet I know it somehow; as I know myself.
This sickness isn't me, I am the sickness.

Trying to get blood out of white sheets, trying to find answers in dreams.
But my dreaming is my wakefulness and in my wakefulness I am asleep.

I created this, everything I see, I created the pain out of boredom.
I am the painter and the canvas, yet I created neither of those, and I lay not even one color to anything.
Nothing is added
Because everything is already dead.
I am watching a dying star fall, and It is ending and begining at the same time.

It is like I am watching a movie backwards.
I am an object of no use.
I am laying with the despair,
I am sleeping with my shadows,
I am the thing before there were thoughts, before the idea, before I had bones and skin to deal with.