Pen and pencil.
The piece reads:

Walking, waking, hollow feet.
Eyes are numb, a frozen face.
Terrified but empty - no feelings and too many.
A stranger's face in the mirror, distorted,
the longer and longer and longer you look
the more horrific are the expressions of the expressionless.

Aching cold, cold heart.
A cloud so dark and heavy, you wade through
foulest treacle and still it ever surrounds you.
Embedded needles scratch out your soul,
acidic vapours burn off your skin.
No sign of damage and every sign,
a contained and hidden pain - a raw exposed nerve
twists and convulses, throbbing round the waking skeleton shell.

Breathing forced - try to remember how it is supposed to feel
- an empty agony , a poor mimicking of the life around.
No life around.
You look to your shadow - the last thing left
- it throws it's head back and laughs before speeding away.

What would you do with your nothing self?
Emptiness a reality.

Too far gone.

(Written in a sleepless night. I think it speaks for itself.)