my life is becoming empty...

my life is becoming empty, reduced to nothing but anxious rooms filled with everything but voices, light shining on the bed and all the wrong places, every day asking my journal why i'm here, questioning what i am, wondering why thursdays feel like mondays (and why i had to discover that from eavesdropping on other people's conversation), writing things that don't make sense in places that mean nothing to me, surrounded by no one but blank tourist faces or sad silent admirers, wondering why i kiss stranger after stranger and feel surprised when they're not there the next day, only a pillow to keep me company beneath sheets and complex dreams, eating to fill some sort of space, cavities to fill cavities, sadness definitely populating - who needs the park, ancient things in museums and shadows of lives observing, consuming the very beauty of existence, consuming until gone and destroyed and forgotten, sucked dry, crying from too much love and not enough sex and outbursts and explosions and vegetables, dying every day from choking silence, trembling voice of time discarded, words and lines and shapes and it all meaning nothing to my hazy eyes and jittery hands and prancing legs, ignoring every voice saying i could be something other than sylvia's or virginia's echo, a bukowski dream and a wandering kerouac heart, a ginsberg howl, bare meals interrupting my sleep - rambling dreams and misplaced affection, kissing the homeless and smoking with the old, dancing with the dead, crying with bliss, smoking and dying with shame, penniless and yet still spending