Nothing

I keep writing the same poem,

living the same nightmare,

like Groundhog Day in Hell,

I can’t get out of love

with a ghost, a shadow,

a love that was never really there.

And I can’t break free

from these shackles, these chains

and the years fall away

like leaves in Autumn

and my skin is wrinkling

like raisins in the sun

and my heart is shrinking

like a star burning out

into a black hole of anger,

hatred and spite.

And this is my nightmare,

my hell of a life

and I’m just clinging on

waiting for any sort of end

that can finally bring relief.

I just want this star to burn out

leaving any sort of nothing.