Deep.

I write and I write but I'm not really saying things,
Empty words, dead words, the illusion of meaning,
If they were alive they'd be beating and screaming,
Tearing and lashing out wildly at nothing,
Nothing and everything, all at the same time,
Targetting you, me, the children and elderly,
Go for the jugular, rip till it bleeds,
The wrath inescapable,
No one gets away free.
The juxtaposition of screaming and sighing,
Living and dying,
Laughing and crying,
Emotional turmoil, emotional baggage.
Getting dragged down, down the bottomless pit,
It's dark and it's cold, almost too small to fit,
There's demons and monsters, ghosts and ghouls,
And the more that I see them the further I fall.
Faster and faster and further and deeper,
Colder and hotter and uncomfortably silent.
Whispers from lost love, from lost friends and foes,
The less that I listen the more that it shows.
Crying at night in the dark, undercover,
Night after night the same sick pattern,
Destroy and rebuild, collapse then stand up,
Over and over forever and ever,
This is a gateway to a painful heaven.