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Nothing is Nothing







Nothing is Nothing.



Nothing is Nothing.



It never really endsÖ



Iím gone from there:







The malls, the parks,



Math class, bleachers,



Splinters, toothpicks,



Watermelon, corduroy,



The sound of guitars,



And smell of fires.



But now Iím 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.



Itís not like that here.



Itís not sad. But itís not happy.



Not for me.



I donít remember happy.



Not that Iím sad.



Explaining my feelings is too hard.



Like telling color to a blind man



Or song to someone without ears.



Itís gorgeous, good, but not with happy.



I guess Iím 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.



