Sober Writing

I am not a human being, nope, if I were I'd have a brain.
Instead I'm just a carcass, a shell filled with disdain.

Once I was a weapon, yes, a tool that ended struggle.
But now my edge is dulled, yet, thoughts still fill my skull.

Directionless, passionless, the void that saps all will.
Ruthless, toothless, nothing would drive me to kill.

Myself? Others? There's a difference I can't find.
A guess? A stab? The contents of my broken mind.

Thoughts running laps, finding loopholes for me to exploit.
A trainwreck, slow motion, a thousand cars, no end in sight.

I barely know where I came from, where do I go from there?
It's hard to plot a course when the flightplan says "Anywhere".

Half the time I want to murder someone, half the time it's me.
A quarter of that, I want nothing, the rest of it, I want free.

Something's always itching under my skin, it wants to bust loose.
I'm a sack of guts filled with bile, I want to spill my pus on You.