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Nameless Nothing Poem
It’s really quite hard
I was dealt a bad hand
Nothing written in the cards
And I don’t have a plan
I couldn’t make this up
I couldn’t if I tried
I guess this is the point
That I’m at in my life
I’m batting for first base
And I’m back at square one
Always end up in this place
When I think that I’m done
I’m stuck
Stuck in a rut
Stuck on a ciga-
Cigarette butt
Open and shut,
Sick to my gut,
Stuck like a dirty old,
Dying stray mutt
Stuck in a cut
In my fake plastic skin
Stuck at the part
Where it’s meant to begin
Stuck in my bedroom, I’ve locked myself in
Sit on my bed and I watch my head spin
They’re asking me when
I’m telling them then
They’re asking me when and all over again
They’re asking me when is the time I’ll get better
I tell them the answer is probably never
So stop asking
It’s taxing
Stuck with myself in a backstreet bar,
Stuck in the seat of an old taxi car,
Stuck in my hometown, and say I’ve gone far,
Admire a street lamp, I don’t need a star
Cause I’m loving the feeling of doing nothing at all
Don’t look at me like that, I’m not trying to stall
Clipping my wings I continue to fall
Nothing at all, nothing at, nothing at all
Copyright © Nameless Nothing | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
Nameless Nothing Poem
What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
A flower,
white and pure,
in a field of debris.
The lily maiden,
a lotus in the troubled oceans,
sprouting and unfolding,
emerging amidst glass and iron,
not in combat with the world,
but in affection of its lone friend.
The mild radiance of the lady
does not cut through the oppressive grey,
but rather quietly calls out,
brushing against the coldness softly,
a star glimmering in the blackened night—
pure, composed,
soft shimmers of light,
a flickering candle flame—
weak, fickle, yet present.
Do you hear it?
Do you feel its warmth against your skin?
Do you wish to hold it?
Run your hands through its hair?
Keep it close to your heart?
This tender thing,
a pretty feeling,
a sleepy lullaby,
soothing troubled corpses,
comforting the broken porcelain.
And as it worships them,
unwavering embrace,
kind and selfless,
it too fades—
the petals fall away.
They must.
But it’s no less pleasing to see—
pieces of snow,
pearls on the sand,
cotton eyes unblemished.
The cascade,
one after another in the fall,
joining the rest,
hand in hand,
ready once more for birth and unbirth,
spit out of mother’s mouth,
then returned to the womb;
so it goes.
Yet,
it does not weep,
it does not protest,
it does not mourn—
small smiles and laughter,
understanding,
sympathetic to death’s cold touch,
pleasantries with the ferryman,
taking its murderer into it’s home,
a table with it’s family,
which is everyone,
lays itself before them,
an offering,
a lamb of self-sacrifice,
not in obligation,
but because it simply can,
and it is the best thing it can imagine—
that which makes it happiest is already here.
It is satisfied,
it does not anger,
does not regret,
grudgeless and unstubborn.
Without resentment,
it nuzzles the hand that chokes it,
knowing the pain of taking,
that harm is done most to the self,
kisses the knife that cuts it,
cold unfeeling instrument,
for it needs nothing in return.
Wars, disease, hunger,
it has seen it all before,
how ugly and flawed you are.
It has seen it all,
but it does not judge,
does not scrutinize;
rather,
it sees it all,
and says,
“This,
this is good.
I like it.”
Do you love it?
This small flower?
Do you cherish it?
This small piece of good?
What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
What is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?
Copyright © Nameless Nothing | Year Posted 2024
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