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Nothing
the indian in me spares no expense with words
every sentence decked in red and gold
every phrase clanging like the silver bells
tied around the necks of cows tethered to stakes
the indian in me is the master of flamboyance
every stanza bursting with metaphors like
samosas crammed with potatoes and green peas
yet the indian in me is hollow, and when i search
for meaning beneath rows of red masala packets
and bundles of empty splendor, i find Nothing.
the american in me uses not, but seizes words
every phrase in gleaming shackles as though
they were stolen from another
the american in me clenches the metaphor
until it shatters, and grasps the allegory
so hard it loses shape.
the ravenous american in me imprisons all words
and in the end, finds Nothing.
and so in my entirety, i present the Great Nothing
the product of crumpled wads of paper
of broken poems and meaningless verses
so painfully painless, so perfectly empty
both the indian and the american in me
have been gorging on Nothing for years
and yet the human in me
still starves
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Hi, I am a sophomore in high school from California and I enjoy writing - poetry, memoirs, short stories et al.