Blank men carry black stones
to riverbeds and call all
who wake before the bells
to follow.

They do not worry about tomorrow
because tomorrow is never
and blank men are naught.

They do not ride horses
because horses mean work.
They do not fall in love
because love means deep being.
They do not chant prayers
because prayers make believe.

They only carry black stones
to riverbeds
because rivers are always changing.

“Don all ye that come, with lamp
and cloak and speak the nameless
name of the river you step into.
Bright be we that carry this darkness
and shadow be us that survive the light.
Ask not why you carry these stones,
but hurl them into the void
and see your reflection tremble.”

At this they move on
and repeat themselves,
with new faces
and no names,
to places that don’t exist
and people that never were.

Blank men carry black stones
to riverbeds and call all
who wake before the bells
to follow.

Hum…. this page is blank
Wonder what I’m supposed to thank
No not thank you, what I’m thankin’ about
Thankin’ what makes me mad, makes me shout
Scrambled eggs and brains, that’s what people eat
No brains, I’ll guess I’ll put my point on repeat
I’m thankin’ hard, mind is charging double overtime
That’s a high price to pay for just a simple rhyme

When you try to vent
to your parents,
it’s like banging your head
against a brick wall—
one you know won’t move,
one you know
will only make you bleed more.

But still,
you push.
You try to shift it,
to make them understand
that you’re tired,
that you’re drowning
in this numbness
that’s eating you alive.

And they ignore it.
Brush it off.
Turn away.

So eventually,
you stop.
You shut down.
You stop offering pieces of yourself
to people who never looked
closely enough to see them.

You become a blank page
in front of them—
no stories,
no pain,
no you...

I watch the traffic through cigarette smoke,
That dances with sighs frosted by winter,
Released into the cold, electric air
By strangers standing close, yet all alone.

And through the blurry neon reflections,
Cast on windows adorned with icicles,
Where the colors bleed along frozen panes,
Something that shouldn’t be there caught my eye.

I thought I saw your shape form in the glass,
But ghosts don’t walk beneath the city lights,
Waiting for someone to follow behind
And lead them through forgotten memories.

Yet no one turns as the traffic drones on,
As I leave to light one more cigarette
And walk by the glass where you might have been,
Where my ghost joins yours in the cold window.
©️2025 David Cornetta

A blank page-
Quiet.
Innocent.
Intimidating.
Possibility.
Freedom.
Beginning.
No judgement.
Pressure.
Always waiting.
It’s time.
A paper plane.

i was doing something
on the computer
it went blank
no my mind went blank
no the universe went blank
never mind all is back now

How do I smile?
How do I frown?
How do I laugh for a while?
How do I scowl?
How do I sneer?
How do I tell people how I feel?
Why don't I show people how I feel?
Why don't people understand?
My face
How do I change the look on my face?

I love a blank canvas
how it focuses the eyes.

It’s black and white without
the usual vestige of messy
attention-grabbing details.

We’ll color those in later,
spending our creative time
whitewashing it with the precision
of our own nervous perfectionism.

We’ll strip away minimalism for cultural
resonance and focus the razor attention
of ‘couture’ obsession and wider comment.
.
.
Songs for this:
Just Exist by Eliza & The Delusionals
Groceries by Mallrat

am I a poet
or am I just deranged
words tumbling out in senseless sequences
always chasing after something
anything really that has no purpose or meaning whatsoever
this blankness is what I am after
anything else is just too predictable at this point