You've come here for sorrow, for tears on your cheek,
But this poem, my friend, has nothing to speak.
No tragic tales or heart-wrenching song,
No lover's farewell, no right turned to wrong.
It's empty, it's hollow, just silence and air,
A void dressed in words, a blank, vacant stare.
You search for the pain, but there's nothing to find,
Just echoes of thoughts left behind in your mind.
Yet still, you keep reading, hoping for grief,
A line that will cut, and offer relief.
But all you will find here is nothing at all,
Just black ink on paper, no rise, and no fall.
And maybe that's it, the saddest of things—
No joys, no sorrows, no songs left to sing.
Just emptiness waiting, where love once did bloom,
A nothing so vast, it swallows the room.
So here is your sadness, wrapped up in a bow,
A poem about nothing, where feelings won't grow.
But if you feel hollow, just know this is true—
This nothing, dear reader, was written for you.