Subsequently Empty

11/28/21, 11/29/21

It’s the same feeling of nothing again.
I would cry if I could.

But everytime I try to cry
my tears evaporate into mist
that amounts to nothing in the air.

Just like the souls of many.
Nothing remains plenty,
Subsequently empty.

What’s inside the dirt I step on?
Some radical ulterior mistake?
Some hand grasping my ankle?
Pulling me down
down
down
Into a some sad-acted truth
of every little single thing I’ve done wrong.
Every lie.
Every push.
Every inch of distance I’ve put
Comes face to face
with your dying grace:
Scars on your eyes —
Arms like twine —
I could rearrange into any form I see fit,
and I chose
to snap you.

Blood out your eyes,
looking right through me,
“How could you do this to me?
Max, how could you do this?”

Maybe this will get me to cry.

I’m a hollow one though
and I put my hand on your head,
close my eyes,
and shove you down
down
down.

No ulterior motive.
I walk home —
The same place
you’ve always known.
But I’ve changed its name
against your own will.
No matter how loud you yell,
nobody will hear.
Because you’re dead.
and i’m still here.
and i’m sorry
but i’m louder
and i’m worse
and i’m trying.

But I can never seem to cry.

And everytime they throw roses on your grave
I can’t help but think of all the souls I failed to save.
Cause I’ve pushed back the pain,
Gave you my blame
And acted as if everything was the same.
But I lied —
I lied.

I know how you look down on me,
down there.
I know how you feel about what I do when nobody’s looking.
I’m not genuine.
Oh, but you’re looking.
I can always feel your eyes staging,
staring,
piercing!

But this won’t get anything out of me!
Just you’ll see.
I won’t shed a tear, mother!
I won’t take the blame, mother!
I’ll carry all the shame,
mother.

And when they throw roses on my grave
they’ll look down at and they’ll say,
“That dirt could use a little water.”

But if only I could cry.

Subsequently empty
till the day I die.