Nothing

Artificial paper, so blank, and white

The retina burns, upon a white screen

Hauntingly dark words, floating in the night

Showing places, I have already been

Ideas that die, before even born

What then, to write of my failure of word

Yet still I sit here, forsaken, forlorn

Determined silence, is all to be heard

To write of nothing, in words still unformed

Wherein all meaning be lost, and confused

Played out alone, this performance performed

A poetic form stands here so abused

Believe tomorrow is another day

Perhaps to have something better to say