I still read the letters to no one,
the same letters one thinks go no where,
those same letters about no one,
which I cant help but think they're about me.
Everyday I see an empty mailbox,
full of nothings from no ones,
all made to me.
Then I write,
I write to whos' about whys and whats
are the way they are,
hoping no one would listen.
So until substance is sustained,
attained and detained,
I will keep living in this world of me.
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