Sense

Book after book
after book
and I will the passages to make the world make sense

but they don’t

still,
word after word
after word
and I’m hoping something will make sense for once

and some things do

and some things don’t

It’s not art if a machine makes it.

Burning cigarette butts into papers where the words mean nothing and it’s too cookie-cutter for it to ever have a chance of meaning anything. The smoke being breathed out doesn’t help to see any better and the words just get further and further away.

The parchment gets smaller and smaller and you’re getting nowhere. The pen’s running out of ink, the pencil is being scribbled down to the end, and even the cigarette’s getting closer to being the last one in the pack.

Suddenly there’s nothing and you haven’t gotten anywhere and no words are found in the ashes or on your tongue. Wrack your brain for any loose change and nothing but the silence echoes.

You think about taking your heart from your chest and pressing it into the paper like you’re used to, only you don’t want to see what it might create.

A drop of red falls from your lip and splatters on the ground and you’ve never been so scared to look down before.

What if it’s pretty, what if it’s not? What if you see the only thing you ever see, or what if it’s nothing? You don’t know what to hope for, you don’t even know what you’re scared of. But you are so you don’t look down.

So many words, yet none of them string together in any way that means anything.

And what’s the point of words if they don’t mean anything?