A poem about the Void (not to be confused with Voïd, the cat)


The worst thing - I believed
were the fluttering thoughts
like sharp butterflies,
their wings cutting me inside.

But then came the Void,
and he ate all the bugs.
It was a peaceful dark,
so I let myself drown,
eyes closed, mouth shut,
breathing in all the Void I could.

There were no thoughts anymore,
and while I was relieved,
with the butterflies gone
all the vines in my mind were drying too.
There was no water, no light, no air,
the Void had absorbed everything
in its sweet pain, its soft numbness.

The Void doesn't let me think,
he likes me better when I just lie.
The Void doesn't let me do stuff,
not with my soul at least.
I just control a numb body,
a flesh machine that is just guts.

Maybe I should have kept some butterfly.
Maybe I should go find some.
I just stopped believe I have flowers inside.