My Very Own Nothing

My blanket of darkness has gone

cold. The thrill of solitude has

dissolved into flavourless

ashes.

I inhale the dust like a desperate

addict, hoping for a

high of my own design, but as I fill my

lungs with bland clouds,

buzzing misery fails to fill the void.

Instead, I’m left with nothing,

my very own nothing,

such a joyless nothing

that I could almost cry.

But, you can’t make tears

out of nothing,

can you?

So, what’s there to do

but wither and die?

[Last Edited: 15th Feb 2022]

Author's Note

Feedback is very much appreciated, as I'm a teen poet looking to improve!