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A Tribute To Nothing

There was an infuriating vibration,
within the reaches of my mind,
well, at the forefront, actually,
that sounded uncannily like a voice
repeating: “What are you doing?”

I pondered for long moments,
“Nothing”, I answered flatly;
in no way a metaphorical nothing,
but a huge, fat and overly satisfying,
home run of literal nothing.

Ha! I thought, somewhat glibly,
now, there I have found a way,
to shut those fucking voices up,
if they expected an answer,
the last thing expected, was truth.

Yet on and on, they nagged,
like my mother on a good day,
when I had the horrible audacity,
to step my feet (which were clean),
on her precious fucking kitchen floor.

“Productivity!” they would chant,
“All that you do, all you have done,
is the true measure of a man”;
thinking I actually gave a shit,
they reveled in there clichéd wisdom.

“As I am better”, I replied,
“at nothing, than any other man,
then reaching such a pinnacle,
my own worth, can it not be measured,
higher than a man lost in mediocrity?”

Again, the blessedness of silence;
to destroy your soul for the approval,
for the gain of another man,
is not in any way an accomplishment,
it is a chain that attaches you to slavery.

So I sit back, truly relaxing at last,
no pious voices to halt the nothingness,
smiling at my own special productivity,
knowing when it comes to wages day,
I’m going to pay myself in whiskey.


Author notes

If you can't do something better than someone else, do nothing better than everyone else. Now that's a nice quote for the day.

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