I don’t know why,
Maybe it was just a thought.
‘Less it was not to just sit here,
And have my mind rot.
Writing on paper,
With the scratch of pen.
Thinking of nothing,
‘Cept the thoughts of men.
My mind an empty corridor,
And yet still full.
Strings all around me,
And yet none I can pull.
I couldn’t tell you why,
Maybe it’s dull.
Speaking of nothing,
With a mind so full