living, only to grasp at the remains of those now gone. happiness doesn't live with me, because it died with my loved ones, they held it in their arms as the sank into the earth they came from. don't take it from me; i yelled in the hope of deliverance, that maybe my words would be heard. but words are just sounds, and sounds are just vibrations knocking against ones ear. so words being heard is not the issue, the words being understood is. but i'm left living in cold busts of depression, where no sounds escape or penetrate. so words to be heard mean nothing. they are dead too.