Can nothing be a thing,
That is heavy on the heart?
Can nothing be a knife,
That carves out a hollow in the chest?
Can nothing be dark,
Engulfing the air around, suffocating me?
It seems to have too much character for being nothing.
It approaches every night
And I am afraid of sleep.
It approaches every dawn
And I am afraid of the day,
Of going through the motions,
The endless rituals of what we call life,
As I hide behind the mask of a white lie;
“I am afraid of nothing.”