Is it loud? A banger, more to say.
Or perhaps quiet, here to stay.
Sometimes livid, mostly a blur
The pursuit of nothing is awake.

Buzz inside the mind, surely a song
Not even a few lines long
Rushes to act, to do a thing
Rather sits calm with nothing.

A sweet dream, a peaceful play
Time to walk and waltz away,
And soon turns into a scary crime
Did we just waste time?

What’s in waste that’s good in nothing?
It’s like being in love with day-dreams
Clock ticks, seconds seem scenes
And by then the night to be seen.

Fills in the corners and calendars
Every checklist gets done
And then comes nothing in picture
As if a new life had just begun.

Seems like joy, suddenly hurts
Feels the peace to just be
Seeing the dawn and dusk light
Creativity, lost—nowhere in sight.

What’s in creativity that’s true in nothing
Is there’s more time to wonder,
To search, skip, and swim
And seek meaning in wander.

Rest or reset, start or resume
Infinite canvas or a tiny room,
A thousand questions in all,
Vastness of nothing consumes.

Why is then this tiff against empty,
Like it’s a grave sin of time?
Of unknown depths and tales,
Sound of nothing is a rhyme.