I live
for thousands of nothings,
for countless hours of nothings
wrapped in endless conversations
hidden amongst constellations
and caught in-between "what if's"
For the nothings
that are always
somethings.
The nothings
told across a page
or played through a song
or whispered through a touch.
Nothings
that stay nothings
because we're afraid of somethings
or we're not ready for somethings.
Nothings
told through little stories
or painted in a gallery
or turned up with a speaker,
nothings in small words
and tv shows
and shared laughter
nothings
told to someone else
whispered across oceans
and foamed across tides
nothings
desperate to be somethings-
if you think you are a nothing,
remember,
you are someone's something.
