Empty, Devoid, empty.
I have nothing to say.
Really.
Like nothing at all.
I am more empty
Than what it feels
After a half hour bent over a toilet.
After, perhaps, emptying myself into
Some boy I ran into
(And ran into.)
But enough of that.
No one needs to hear of my exploits.
They aren’t that impressive anyway.
I am an empty man is all.
Unimpressive, I know.
Devoid of any substance, a paper doll
Cut from papier-maché.
A thing composed of ice and wind,
A fragment, then, material only to phantoms,
A toy to be enjoyed by wanton ghouls.
Not a thing at all, really.
Yet such a thing could view the dawn,
Maybe.
