Take a look at my body
Look at my hands
There's so much here
That I don't understand

I'm sorry.
I wish you were here.
I need you.
Forgive me.
Don't go.
Thank you.
I love you.

They're just words. And what should they amount to?

When you say "I'm sorry", you might mean what you say, but you're only talking, aren't you? You might as well be saying "Hello" or "There's nothing."
Because there isn't, is there?
There's nothing you can do to change what you've done. You might mean the words, but that's all they are: words.
Pointless human creations that were formed by making whatever sound you can and letters were made because they drew any sort of pattern and called it law.
Called it matter-of-fact.
Called it real.

But then, what is real?
Death is a human concept created because the human race were scared. Scared of what happened when there was no pulse. When there was no brain activity.
And so what does that mean?
That they're dead?
Your bones stop growing at some point, but it doesn't mean they're dead.
What if they're not dead at all? We shouldn't know.

All these words are pointless; fucked up.

So you want to know how I'm feeling? Words can't describe what I'm feeling. Because nothing means anything unless you are me. Because you don't know what it's like.
You don't know what's going through my mind.

No-one does.

When was the last time I smiled and didn't do it intentionally?
Never.
I cannot remember.

When was the last time I was happy?
Smiles, singing, dancing, acting, laughing: it covers how I'm really feeling, and what I'm really doing, because I don't want to worry anyone. I don't want to tell you that I've never smiled, not really, or laughed without wondering what my real laugh sounds like. Of course I don't want to worry you. And no-one says anything. And that's fine. Because even if you did I wouldn’t want your help.

So here: this is me, cutting the middle man out, letting you see inside.
Are you happy now?
I only want to make you happy.
I can't remember when I did something for myself. Because I don't know what I want.

But then again, you still wouldn't know what it's like, would you?
Because it's just words that's being read.
And words are nothing.

I wish you were here.
I need you.

I'm a slow dying flower
Frost killing hour
The sweet turning sour
And untouchable