Nothing

Nothing always finds me

Doing nothing

Loving nothing

Feeling nothing

And it stifles my spirit

Between now and whatever comes after

I feel like sitting on a bench for hours

Breathing the cold air

Shrouded in my thoughts

Buried in the my soul’s depth

I can’t get out of my being

To scream or make a sound

To love anything

Or embrace something

Reviews

[Pete Langley]

I`m so glad I found your writing, Nihad. Having read your last five posts, I know already that you have a unique perspective and the eye to visualise and articulate that view uniquely. You don`t rely on singularly flowery language, but build the picture of your thought, producing the vivid brightness that makes great poetry. Of this piece, I have an overall impression of natural calm, almost instinctive....of waiting for what may come, or not. Yes....I am not ashamed of it.... this review is effusive in admiration. P.

[Invisible]

hate it when that happens lol.

[Leah Simone]

I was just checking in to see if anyone I knew was still writing and I find this? Consider a little red bird tapping at your window - wings fluttering "it's only glass - it's breakable - it just looks like nothing from where you are - come closer"

[Gandré]

one of the forces of the universe, which physics doesnt recognize, the gregariousness again.. first principle of mimicry. the association with doing nothing here is thinking - but I say, there is no such thing as no thing or nothing, the only category which is nothing is the void and the void is not nothing it just means meaninglessness. how can you do nothing when you r breathing and your heart is beating and brain is electrical circus.. you have vision, you have sound.. but Nihad - is doing nothing - and I am glad that this happens on writerscafe. :=))

[J]

ah nihad ... i was here juss the other day, wondering about you.

but i did not expect to find you tangled in such depredation. it truly tempers the joy of seeing your unique ink stains again. no matter the number of moments between connections, it seems as though no time has passed at all and your pen has only been suspended ~ waiting for the opportunity to touch parchment again ...

as is your habit, the bare nekkidness of you skewers depths unplumbed ...

here you bring the helplessness of despair held in abeyance until such as this ...... presence of the sea understood only by its pounding screams against jagged shores and frigid breath. and as you sit insulated in intellection, politely staying awake in the glare of random headlights, i feel the heat of the hands of kismet upon your shoulders, reminding you of tomorrow ...

nothing, nothing is anything for too long ...

xo