Nothing is something,

And something is nothing,

Lose the sight of clouds,

As you stare at the sun,

Or lose the count of stars,

As you’re mesmerized by the moon.

Believing a lie,

Does that make one a liar too?

Believing the truth,

Does that make one an honest man?

Pushing shoving,

Does that ever help?

Pulling tugging,

Does that even help?

I close my eyes,

I travel to the past,

I use my fingers to create silhouettes,

Silhouette of memories,

I talk to myself,

In my head,

Does that mean I’m mad or dead?

What is the present?

A tinge of the future?

Or a trace of the past?

What is now is the present,

What you’re reading next is the future,

What you read above was the past,

My friend, nothing ever lasts.

So do I live in the present?

Or the past?

Or the future?

No I say!

I live in them all,

You can scorn,

You can laugh,

But dear friend,

Nothing is something,

And something is Nothing.


What prompted me two write the above poem?

I was reading through some of my old posts and it was kind of freaky that I wrote about Death a month before my dad passed away:

I realised three things:

a) When one keeps entertaining stupid thoughts (such as Death), they come true

b) I realised I’m a fucking awesome writer

c) I think I have supernatural abilities.

I should be a shaman.


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