Nothing is about nothing
because everything is about something,
and that’s something.
It may not be about what you think it is,
and that’s the beauty —
Once the words are released into the wild,
the author loses control of them —
and then what?
What unleashes these wordstorms that I indulge in?
Some days I try to throw unlimited words to the wind,
and end up scratching nothing,
and then there are the days
I am compelled to write for pages at a time,
even if the words are insane and disconnected
and full of meaninglessness disguised as meaning.
I mean, really?
