This poem is about nothing,
or rather no idea,
My head is blank, my brain is too
It seems my mind is clear
I could ramble on for hours,
About this lack of thought
Or just backtrack a day or two,
Remember what I bought.
I’ve never felt such writer’s block,
Such ineffectual poetry,
This poem really means nothing,
At least, it does to me.
But fifty years will go from now
My poems may be celebrated,
Children in their mock exams,
will walk out feeling so frustrated,
There’s nothing in this poem
No thoughts or feelings shown,
I’m writing this for no reason,
From which, a thought has grown
If poems didn’t mean a thing
To anyone from anywhere,
Then would we have to think about them,
Would we have to care?
I’ll leave you with another thought,
Is poetry an art?
And if it is then what’s the style?
Where do all poems start?
Backstory – There’s not really much to say about this poem. I was bored. I had a presentation at school and decided a poem would sound pretty good. I ended up writing about nothing, at least until the last few stanzas. Is it any good? I think it’s a little too contradictory in places. Hope you all enjoyed though 😀