Desert Landscape Poem by James Mullaney

I am empty; I am nothing.
There is no source of ME.
A hollow shell, a massless gust,
where a person used to be.
I have no thought that's real
nor passion uncontrived
I cannot hope or reason
or prove that I have lived.
I cling to no convictions
I strive for no reward
I merely receive impressions
from the dismal mise-en-scene.
I seek immediate pleasures
that leave me flat and dry;
I dream about tomorrow:
a dreary wash of gray.
I live for no good reason
I write to pass the time
I hate waking up in the morning
and I hate falling asleep at night.
I'm on the verge of something,
something, something...something odd;
I'm not sure yet just what it is -
insanity - or God.