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Nothing is Nothing
Nothing is Nothing.
Nothing is Nothing.
It never really ends…
I’m gone from there:
The malls, the parks,
Math class, bleachers,
Splinters, toothpicks,
Watermelon, corduroy,
The sound of guitars,
And smell of fires.
But now I’m here:
Where you imagine
Clouds and angels
Harps and white robes.
Or if you are worried:
Red and pitchforks
Horned men and
Torture, endless torture.
But these are ideas from
Your world.
Ideas thought up in malls
While you buy corduroy
Or pick watermelon from your
Teeth with toothpicks
While you sit,
After math class
On the splintery bleachers.
These are ideas of your world.
Ideas that smell or touch or feel.
It’s not like that here.
It’s not sad. But it’s not happy.
Not for me.
I don’t remember happy.
Not that I’m sad.
Explaining my feelings is too hard.
Like telling color to a blind man
Or song to someone without ears.
It’s gorgeous, good, but not with happy.
I guess I’m just the same.
I watch you here,
>From behind the mirror
And that is what makes it good.
Behind the mirror
Watching, waiting
Waiting for nothing
Because Nothing is Nothing.
There is no thing. There is no thing.
But everything is something.
Nothing is nothing.
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