i wouldn't call it poetry

nothing

sometimes i cannot be
content with doing nothing
because nothing feels
uncomfortable, like i'm
stuck and empty and sort of
absolutely useless, void of
the purpose i grow tired of
until it is gone and i cry
for it to come back and
tell me what to do with myself
i cannot be content with
doing nothing, and so
i itch to create
but the nothing
creeps into my mind
and permeates every dark
corner until i can't even create
because it has killed what i held before
there is nothing, nothing, nothing
except my deep fear of nothing
and i write this because this
is all i can create to fill the nothing
i want to fill it with something
but what else is there?
this isn't enough
this is nothing as well
this means nothing
this will mean nothing, nothing, nothing
and often i will go to her, or to you, or to anyone
because that is something
but i don't want to today
this happens often now
i can't go to you (or to her)
because talking requires
having something to say
and i have nothing
i will fill the space
with the thoughts
i've been avoiding
and regret it