Nothings

My writing Is written as are my thoughts In disarray. Swirling, whirling. Spilling out and away Faster than I can express them. Is written as my self is shown to others. Barely scratching the surface. As pointless as everything always is. Is written as a snapshot. A still frame of a single idea Acting as many more. For those who interpret it It is. But not really. My poetry Is me trying to be me About something that is not me But merely a part, and not even a representative one. Is written as is; perpetually unfinished. Incomplete.