Left of Me

“There’s nothing left for me,

nothing left for me.

There’s nothing left for me,”

he said,

looked down at his bloody hands,

“The guilt on me

all the things I’ve done,

all the things I’ve done.

There’s nothing left for me.”

 

“I’m all used up,”

he said,

I’m all used up inside

and there’s nothing left of me,

nothing left of who I used to be.

Twenty-two and all used up,

I’m the empty river,

can’t you see?

 

You’re all that’s left for me,

you’re all that’s left of me,

I’m all used up,

you’re so brand new.

I can find myself in who you are,

but I take,

can I give?

You know, my dear,

there’s nothing left of me.

 

Company’s not here,

alone – it’s just me,

the empty river,

alone and complete.

How much does nothing need?

How much more do I need,

really to really just be me?

How much more do I need,

how much can one need?

 

Take me.

Make me.

Use what’s left,

all that’s left of me.

Do you have a need?

Maybe you can make me feel,

feelings are filling.

Can you find what’s left,

left of me,

left of me,

left of me?

 

The angle light,

you drown me,

flowing,

just starting,

you’re so young and full.

The that make a shadow — me,

the sound that makes the echo,

you’re the start of my favorite dream.

 

All I need,

need to be,

to finally see,

what is really me,

what is really

left of me.

 

April 25, 1998

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3 responses to “Left of Me

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