«I wrote those poems in consideration of those who were left behind by the fortune of life, and those, who are, ‘dead inside’ as they endure and survive in astonishing agony of loneliness»

President Helge Kim (Read more on his web site)

Two Tables

A hall.
And Two Tables.
And me.

A phone full of notos,
I should not care about.
A mind so full and empty,
I just wander around.

A hall.
And Two Tables.
And me.

And that Feeling,
you know?

You hear you breathe?
You notice you shake?
You feel your heart beating?
So,
Who did you leave?

In that hall
with two tables?

Disgust.

Dark Room.
A man 
lying on god damn
floor 
unclean
drown 
in blood?
in tears?
in sweat?

Only he knows.

He is dead
Or so 
it just seems.

He breathes
but other than that
could you say
he's alive?

A book, and a book
Tens of unfinished books

Notebooks,
study notes,
seemingly wait for 
him to complete them
before it is too late

(It is already too late)

No change would
bring that man
back to his life
that he, actually, never had.

A kid,
he received his slap,

A lover,
his boyfriend abandoned.

A worker,
he had to kill himself
yet again.

He is alive,
and yet. 
He is dead.
His phone is online,
yet nobody calls.
What was his life?
Only he would know.