I'll write a poem a day,
and maybe that way everything will be
okay.
I'll look up at that oil covered sky,
that peculiar black stained shade of grey,
those wisps of condensation tilled out,
like fields of wheat and
creased tightly through golden streaks,
of setting suns' last gleams,
and I'll sit lack jawed, if just for a second,
and wonder if truly my existence is worth it.
So much doubt running,
so very deep.
Yes, I'll write a poem a day,
as if...
nothing,
really.
Aye,
Eureka, I know my meaning,
Yes I will express that frustration,
of an infinite empty feeling.
That little almost insignificant voice that says to you,
It doesn't matter, none of this is real,
Well for each and every one of you I'll feel,
quite intensely in fact,
that ignominious void,
the elephant in the room,
and with tact and poise,
I'll illuminate it for you,
so you can live, and I can dream,
Sweet fruitful dreams of nothing.