The wall to nowhere

It seemed important

The purchase

I owned it

It was mine

I took it home

And put it with the rest of my


Which is when I realised

Nothing belongs to me

Even this body will one day be taken

Or rather left behind

What else?

What else is left behind?

Just the things I said?


What is spoken is soon


Like my used up body

Buried beneath layers of eternity

What I wrote?

Perhaps that lasts a little longer

The reason we writers do what we do

There seems little enough reason otherwise

To write

Make art

Disgorge large portions of our hearts

Onto canvas



I would rather do this strange thing

And feel I was producing something


Then spend a life of breathing in and out

Going through the motions

Sitting in traffic jams

Sham meetings

Rearranging pencils in my top drawer

Listening to office gossip

Taking this piece of paper

Turning it into another

And another

And another

With no art in between

Nor words that mean anything

To be jostled with too many humans

In a job that meant nothing beyond doing

The same thing

Day after day after day

And producing nothing that came



Just seems

Like laying bricks

On a wall that leads nowhere

23 thoughts on “The wall to nowhere

  1. You captured something finite and abstract simultaneously. That feeling we writers, artists, creatives feel. There’s gotta be more than… the mundane right? And yes, it’s there. You captured it. And it’s worth plowing through the mundane for.

    Absolutely wonderful!

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