There is nothing to be
said, nothing to make
clear, just the extension
of myself in these words that
don't express anything.
But even nothing expresses something;
it always seems to swell up
inside me, threatening to take my
sanity, and leave me with something more
or less, empty.
What, I pray, what
is to be gained from
such a long and drawn out period of inanity?
Is it just me or am I writing and you
reading
using hands and feelers?
Even nothing expresses something;
even emptiness is full
of unnameable elements:
sesquipedalian verbiosity, mayhap;
the Soul willing itself to
break out
of the chains of white.
This is poetry, the poetry of
nothing.
--
Think with your head; act with your heart.
http://www.wretch.cc/blog/spacedunce5
--
※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.cc)
◆ From: 140.112.7.59
※ 編輯: spacedunce5 來自: 61.228.87.208 (05/14 22:53)
※ 編輯: spacedunce5 (114.42.213.171), 05/09/2019 11:29:10