Poem: lovely nothings
Behind walls that smell of bleach
a man preaches immortality,
pretty words on white paper,
a legacy of empty promises and unfulfilled dreams.
He tried to teach me to write a sonnet, once,
to stitch syllables and lines
that didn’t mean anything important
together with birdsong and sorrow.
And they were pretty words-
but empty ones.
And I think that is where we differ,
man of smoke and salvation.
You want to be loved for your work-
to write pretty things on paper wings,
and fly away from this place.
and I?
I want to rot
under the weight of these words,
knowing they are more
than lovely nothings.
