I'm not sure what it means to be alive.
I wonder how it feels?
It must feel better than this.
Alive.
To exist, not survive.
I know I'm living,
Yet I feel like I have died.
Not my body,
But my spirit.
What does that make me?
What am I left with?
I must be far too young 
To feel so without hope.
What is hope, anyway?
Because let's be honest:
If I could alter my reality
By means of nothing other than my imagination, 
I'd be dead.
Yet I'm still alive.
Actually, just living.
I live and nothing more.
But if my heartbeat makes me living
And my bled-out soul makes me dead inside,
Who's to say I even have a soul?
Am I really just a body with a heartbeat?
A heart that beats for nothing
Other than a shred of hope
That one day,
I'll find you.