I always say this,
That our cells are made of elements found in the distant stars of galaxies far away,
In planets and comets too,
The same ones found in our blood stream,
Keeping us alive,
In this massive universe of elements.
So, when I say,
The universe is made of us,
And we are made up of the universe,
I also mean that there is a part of us,
That represents the dark, black hole,
A vortex of nothingness and everything,
That absorbs everything into it,
And destroys it to bits.
So when I say,
The universe runs in our veins,
I also mean the blackhole,
That makes us feel empty,
With the void echoing the hurt and heart ache,
Going unheard in this universe,
As far as it goes.
Because there's actually no sound in space, right?
Maybe some multiverse can hear your scream,
In decibels and emotions understandable,
Then perhaps this emptiness would feel less than now,
For this universe seems to have conspired,
Against me until now.