Poem: Nothing

Why is it that the most beautiful poems, 
Grow out of the pain that
Has become my being, 
The absorbing conquest of 
To be or not to be, 
The inherent battle of to 
Bite or not to bite
The bullet of belated, blatant masks. 

Why is it that in order for me to write, 
I have to sit down and think of all the times
I have been put down, 
Think of all the problems that have been created
By the deflated sense of purpose, 
The acting nervous of others
When all I’m afraid of is the next wave of…

Because nothing comes but everything does, 
Because the world keeps moving, 
But I remain immobile, 
A standing statue, a replica of what was
Before I Knew…
What it meant to know that this is

The most powerful definition that means

I am nothing

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