Nothing man, who grasps the meaning <br />of desertion as easily as he changes <br /> <br />his clothes. Limp noodles that lie like <br />empty promises on his heart. He dreams <br /> <br />of days arrived and days survived. The <br />sun rises, the sun sets and still the nothing <br /> <br />man concludes his silent thoughts in frames <br />of coughing reference. There are people he <br /> <br />once associated with. He called them friends. <br />They did not know him. What they knew <br /> <br />they ended up not appreciating. He mourns <br />alone for other realities he self-created. <br /> <br />Tears can fall, but not from him. His water <br />bill has gone unpaid and so his teardrops <br /> <br />are salted channels of mould. There are <br />not many places left to hide, but still he <br /> <br />is not seen in the real world. Nothing man <br />of so many nothing days, how perfect is <br /> <br />your vision? Can you see the pain left <br />in the mailbox? Can you feel the loneliness <br /> <br />as it escapes across your heart? Memory, <br />that odd little word that applies to so many <br /> <br />different states of being. Oh Nothing man, <br />what a sad loss of hope exists in this sad <br /> <br />hopeless world. You are one of many, <br />but you sit alone in your glass house.<br /><br />Chris G. Vaillancourt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nothing-man/
