Nothing Is Nothing

Without the love of poetry,
were it not for the words ricocheting
from the nests in my soul
to the white paper sky,
nothing happens.

Absolutely nothing.

No planets will crash in the middle of space.
No ocean will swallow a village of saints.
Children will not start falling like dominoes
in a center for terminal illness.

Nothing will happen.
Absolutely nothing.

Earth that once flourished would now turn to stone.
Dust would be born from the stars that once shone.
All homes would be painted the same drab gray,
reeking worthlessly of tension and words unsaid.

All because of nothing.
Absolutely nothing,
which is not death itself,
but might as well be the nickname,
as he who does nothingis nothing,
and I might as well fill the air
I so constantly breathe.

Cheap Biology

I am utterly convinced
that my spirit is a ten-cent whore,
letting any passing nemesis
fuck it in the mind
with almost no tension.

It must enjoy the sensation
as its host clearly shows
in the streams of tears
that flow through the eyes,
the spirit's ejaculation.

It must become the sadist
at the viewing of torture,
as its host sits in an icy stupor,
with the times of bawling on the floor
and penetration of the flesh
the only times of breathing.

My spirit must have stolen all the charm it takes
to captivate the enemy into arousal,
as the host stumbles awkwardly in public,
pushing all potentials away with vehemence
and convincing itself of its inferior quality
to even the vermin of the sewer.

My spirit has made me the loathing host
to the parasite of my own existence,
with my mind as the main casualty,
ridden with smut from outer villainy
and decay from Casanova-esque traumas.

I hope it's happy.