Tracing shapes,
On the nape of my neck.
Invisible words,
Wiring across my back.

 

I am a creation,
Composed of inkblots and paper shavings.
With no rhyme,
Or reason.

 

I exist for the pure hell of it.
I exist for the simple reason that I can.
I exist to exist.
No more, no less.

 

But with this existence,
Comes future goals and hopes.
Originally I abstained from thought,
Till I grew up that is.

 

I lay awake,
In the seas of disturbed fantasy.
Disturbed by fantasy,
Fantasized by disturbia.

 

I feel touch,
Where only oblivion treads.
I feel touch,
Where only nothingness bleeds.

 

I cradle myself,
With strong arms.
Because those are,
The only ones I can find.

 

In the sea of interlocking arms,
There's no link for me.
Only a coalescing mesh,
Of jealousy-inducing rage.

 

I hold myself,
With hopes.
Hopes that one day,
Another pair of arms will wrap around me.

 

And take me away.
Away from this plain.
Maybe we could fly away,
In some designer plane,
Or even a fast car.

 

This existence,
Is based on touch.
Yet I can't find,
What I came from.

 

Love's touch,
Is oblivious to me.
I'm blind to it.
I'm absent to it.

 

I can't find,
What won't be found.
Touch is given,
Not taken.

 

And it seems,
I'm not meant to do either.