Who are you?

You seem so hollow to me

Can you tell me the last time

You felt truly free?

Can you say how you feel

Does it burn when you touch

A hot stove or fire

Or are emotions just too much

I think that you’re a little empty

And that’s okay to me

But sometimes you extinguish my fire

And I try to smile docilely

I think someone stole your heart

And forgot to give it back

Because you live without love

And certainty is the only thing you attack

I want to say I like to talk with you

But your ice freezes my mind

Sometimes after we speak

I feel a little behind

Because you’re an empty box

And I’m a fire untamed

Sooner or later, we’ll destroy each other

We are not the same


Sometimes I meet people who lack passion, which is such an essential part of my existence that I wonder how they operate. A small, arrogant part of me believes I can change them, make them believe in something so ardently as I believe in the world. However, most people I meet are content with how they live. With their dispassion. They aren’t unhappy and frustrated, while I stew over injustices in the world that still prevail and bemoan how difficult it is to change such things. I’ve learned, or perhaps I want to learn, that most people don’t care about everything, and that’s completely fine. Normal, even. However, I still believe passion is important and can be found in every one.