Nothing

I am verb-less and out of cliques,
all I have is me and this hole
that sinks asleep, a slow
useless, unpublished poem.

My words are words,
and I mean only what I know,
My lips are quiet air,
everyone hears a smile,
but can't feel my fire.

I am not a lie,
but withheld truth
buried, its easier to leave
dirt alone, underneath resent.

Where is the absence of ears,
when lies do not rule, when secrecy
dismisses cruelty.

I've lost the truth in my denial,
I found love in a lie
and my truth is inside.
a story of trifles, conscientiously dead.