Life of thyself

It seems to be an empty page
Waiting to be written on.
A play that no body goes to
Nor enjoys watching.

A forgotten toy
That only the dogs enjoy playing with.
Or a story
That has been long vanished
From the minds of those who don't read.

The only comfort
That is known
Is that of the ones
Who don't exist.
The one that are only
Visible by the one who believes.

To be forgotten
By the loved ones
Not only that it hurts
But it leaves no hope.
Being stuck here
In this dark abyss
With nothing here
But clothes.

It starts to consume
The never ending cycle
Of the dread and despair.
When will it stop
In a year?
Though everyone knows
That will never come true.

Knowing that a grave has been dug
By the one that has not been loved.
Ready to leave
Not really caring
Who is getting hurt.
Just knowing that
Not living
Seems like the best way
To forgetting.