There Isn’t Anything

There is dust and there is passion
And they are different things.
There is no passion is dust
And no dust in passion.
I feel drained and squeezed and dried
And now dust collects around me while
My passion erodes the pipes.

I’ve done a lot of digging and
I’ve discovered a few jewels with rocks
While you lounge around pondering
The difference between jewels and rocks.
You say there isn’t a difference except in value.
And you say you’d always choose the rocks.

I want you to see the face I made every single
Time you said you couldn’t come. Every time
You were too busy or too sick. You are always ill.
I’ve been told you were ill my entire life.
And your illness is the one to blame, and you are not
It. You are not your illness. You are not. Yes you are.

There isn’t anything you could have done wrong
For the longest stretch of time. When I sat on the beach
It wasn’t about you, but me. It was about me once.
I tore myself away and there we were, apart for once.
When you came back I let you take over for old time’s sake,
And I tried to start over, with new eyes and expectations.

You have no idea who I am, what an incredible thing to say.
You know the basics, less than anyone else I know.
You don’t have the tools to see inside the caverns,
Let alone to light the dark. There is a lot of dark. You are the dark.
I am the dark too, but there is light as well. And you’ll never know.
There isn’t anything you’ll ever know about me.