I'm empty and I don't feel it - fill with phrases here and there,
When I fail to find a suitable word, the vacuum continues to stare,
I finally realize the futility, of denying the Nada within,
But sharing my shallowness, with the world, is surely not my thing.
I can write a poem about nothing, only if you hail it great,
At least treat it read-worthy- even if likes are not in my fate.
Curse it or criticize it, show some reaction to boot,
But ignore it and you will kill it- for my self has not taken root.
It's still too dependent on this, that you get what I am feeling right,
That you walk in my shoes delicately, not judging they are loose or tight.
I'm sure they pinch, they are meant to, they are not easy shoes to fill,
Like me they are hollow on the inside, and yet are suffocating still.
My self is a bit disorganized, to make sense is an order tall,
Your coming in my life is like a song- making love out of nothing at all.
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