Nothing

The beauty of a blank slate;

But we meddle with it,

We smudge it with charcoal knowledge,

Our parents providing the stationary,

And the schools give us the paper.

Then: we write.

The pages are just a distraction,

From the ignorant yet blissful

Oblivion in my mind,

I wish the words would trickle

Away, and form the perfect smile,

But words are the constant,

And you are the temporary,

And we have perished.

The people that listen are punished,

With the promise of nothing

So:

The days go by;

And I am back at nothing.

But this is worse than the nothing

of my blank slate,

It is a nothing without meaning,

 A nothing without hope,

To know too much,

is to know absolutely nothing.