I feel like there’s an impressively large hole that feeds off my anger and lonesome reality.
I feel like money and makeup and movies aren’t filling this void that I’m have trouble getting around from time to time. Is it a person I’m missing? A new hobby I long for? I couldn’t answer this riddle if I wanted to, and I want to, I really want to. I can’t pinpoint what I want, or is it what I need?
I feel so empty, so unsatisfied, and I dread this pain. I wake up with faint remains of a wondrous dream and I live my day with empty space sewn into the linings of my pockets. I fake smiles often, not by force, but by habit. I feel like I want someone to accompany me when I watch the many movies I’ve collected, someone to co-own my earnings; simply another to admire my counterfeit smiles. So many hours alone allows one to yearn for a lifestyle of another, for a way so different than the one they take now. At least this is true for myself. I bury my lonesome thoughts in books about romance and films of fantasies, and it was just a matter of time until I wanted to experience what could not be mine. Is it a fairytale I ask for, or just a friend? Is it motivation of some sort I wish to have surge through me, or is it merely to be content? I wish for another soul, one other than those I know so well. I want a foreign body to inhabit the images and actions of those incorporated in my dreams, and to lounge, struggle, prosper and survive with such a creature, with such a form.
I believe I lack the ability to speak my mind fully, for I am watched by the eye of a crow; this bird, though it be lovely, can carry a secret but a ways and I have no desire for the exposure.
I am too young to yearn for that of which is reserved for the ages of which I am not, but I do not wish to have a family separate from my own; I believe I wish only for a trustworthy individual with the capacity in their hearts to love me for my quirkiness. Validity? Quenched I thought I was; parched I now prove to be, for I want what I cannot have. I ask to drink a wine I am not ready for. But I am ready for a friend; a friend with the capacity I spoke of and the passion I dare not seep into. Missing is this person; missing is this entity from my life. This void grows with each romance novel and love story I expose myself to. I cry instantly when the faultless combination of letters forms to fabricate the term ‘love’.
I pray for happiness and I receive it in many ways, but now I presume I must become more specific with my prayers, and more precise with His response the Lord may be. Maybe I know this person now. Maybe their digits haunt my contacts list. Wherever they are, whomever they may be, I ask they make themselves known, for I have grown weary of the sound of my television and the heavy steps of mine as I mope around the wooden platform of my room. Another voice to linger in my mind, other than my own, is a sound I could sleep soundly to at night, for I do not sleep so soundly now. A friend, a genuine friend, that can be there to lift my spirits, kiss my wounds, heal my scars of sorrow, refill my half empty glass, and replace what is missing…
If they can first tell me what it is I am missing.
Image is not mine.