.....[nothing].....

Just sitting, taking in the noises, trying to make
Something
Out of nothing
Taking thoughts and weaving them into
Poetry
No cadences, metaphors, or rhymes.
Just listening to the bustle, writing nothings that I
See.
Hear.
Think.
Feel.
But is it really nothing if it’s coming from my soul?
When the pen jumps so naturally along the paper
Putting together the words.
There must be purpose.
It knows where to stop–


Start,
And how to cut through illuminated lies,
Marking the canvas with my bloody truths.
The pen leaves my mind naked and vulnerable.
The ink spills the tears my eyes dare not spare.
Sacrificing me for the comfort of those who know
One
But not the other
Hate
But not love
Ache
But not relief
Death
But not life.
And all who simply celebrate the latter
Wonder
My ambiguous plight.
He who knows both
He who bends his mind into the impenetrable
c h a s m s
That shift my emotions, truly
Knows.
The pen is the cross that I bear.
So I sit, take in the noises, make
Something
Out of nothing.
Letting this pen drain the sweat of my struggle and
Stain my paper with its bitter salt.