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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.