Nothing, For No One, For No Reason
Crudely Contrived, №1 (Poetry)
These days, I write so much,
yet say so
little.
Hardly anything, really. Almost nothing.
Run-on and unfinished sentences that lead to nowhere…
Sloppy paragraphs — not misplaced — but placeless…
A vault of aimless “drafts” left invariably unfinished,
none of which began with any real intention…
Each day, a new rambling is cut short,
usually as soon as I regain the courage to admit
that I’ve spent yet another sleepless night writing —
without knowing what, or to who, or for what reason —
something to remain
unfinished
and entirely
unread.
And just like that,
with each failed attempt at explaining something
about which I couldn’t even write enough to fill a page with,
night after night
I add another layer
to a growing stack of evidence
that proves
just how depressingly
little
I truly know myself,
or this world,
or anything at all
about anything.
But I can’t stop.
