Am I anything more?

I feel unreal.

A phase of

something?

(maybe nothing)

a cask

of something

that could've been great.

I feel myself rotting.

I'm more unreal than I've ever been.

I'd ask you to save

me?

(I hope)

Walk about

eyes clouded

with half baked lies.

And every moment

Seems like some

Horrid mockery.

And my pen

Has never scratched with less

Passion.

(or optimism?)

I feel less

Than

I've

Ever

Been,

And

I

Feel

The

Wind.

And it's never meant less.