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Running On Empty
Author: Shiloh

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I sit here thinking,
again,
and suddenly I realize that
I'm running on empty.
Fumes.
A great big echoing empty.
I don't understand it,
because there is this huge thing,
this monstrous ache,
inside me
where the empty is,
and it's hard to undersand
how they are both in the same place.
Somehow, I think,
my mind must take a part in this,
dividing the place in there
so the empty and the ache
are both there, together,
where I wish they weren't.
There are so many things
that I have missed,
just missed,
overlooked,
and forgot, lost, given up on,
and then,
when I think of them,
I have this ache.
I guess it adds up.
And it makes sense,
somehow,
to know that since I don't have these things,
never had them,
didn't even come close,
that there would be this great empty.
Maybe the empty is one thing,
and the ache is another.
Sadness and anger
would work, I think.
They sort of take turns,
making me miserable,
making me feel like this,
or like that,
and since I continue to inhale and exhale,
it will always be that way.
I'll try to get used to it.

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