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, do 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
--
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