the one who knows

on the subject of nothingness and emptiness
empty of everything that
to most people would seem to be nothing
makes sense thirty-five cents and twenty sticks
to show for it
killing myself so slow
slow enough to see each day passes right
on by myself
a new lung or two
much pain in the window washing
bums on the street
what makes him any different than me
doesn’t make sense
again I sit and think
about nothing and emptiness
if I am thinking about nothing
I am contradicting myself
and others may think I am strange
what is so strange about writing down all my thoughts
words don’t come out right
what’s right or wrong
and who is the one who knows?…