We are of nothing,

for nothing,

and going nowhere.

 

Tender, plastic kisses mask

a void we cram full of

Valentine's Day bargain love.

 

It's not the dollar's fault,

always searching for a way to move,

like the skin wrapped around your body,

always crawling,

path of least resistance,

going anywhere,

can't fight the monster you can't see or prove,

but can't stop feeling.

 

Our souls are tugged down,

by some inexplicable force,

spritiual gravity,

that never ceases to pull one towards the gutter,

as if anyone needed more convincing of where home was.

 

One could always look in the toilet and see which way life was going,

a man-made compass,

analogy for life in the most appropriate place:

where we fuck, release waste, and become clean,

in a rinse-repeat pattern of little value or specific order.

 

The Nothing People,

the only name fitting enough,

aside from maybe those-who-live-with-a-void-eating-their-guts/mind,

but that was already copyrighted by the cynical me.

 

As a kid I thought there was a way out,

always a next step for progress

-stupidity still reigns,

but the battle changed –

The meaning of life is the journey

and there is no achievement in that,

no victory,

but it's the hand we have been dealt

and have evidently chosen to play rather than fold.

 

The hand is destined to lose,

but like a gambling junkie fronted a few chips,

we can't put our hands down,

even when we are ahead a few,

addicted to the high of fake winning.

 

That's where we live,

with our nothing,