This is all too familiar right now... that feeling of every word is just word, charged neither with angst nor passion. Just words. And just words on paper are little more than jumbled technical prose... a contradiction in terms, a self-nullification. This however, ironically in fact, does not collapse on itself.
I like this a lot, actually. Most memorable in this piece are the lines "silence is to feel/ what feeling isn't." So often poets are screaming in their minds to search out feelings and truth, and the idea that silence is the experience of... well the lack of experiencing anything, is really superb. I'm being vague and unhelpful, but I really don't know what to say. I guess I'll just say I like it, it has great resonance, and that is the most important thing a poem, or any piece of art for that matter, can lend someone.
Bullet+brain=a messy combo. I wouldn't recommend it.
Cheer up Bill, I still read even if I don't comment. I know how it feels, but (to sound like a condescending fu.cktard) it'll turn around at some point. I'm busily recruiting members from other sites to give this one fresh life, a much-needed kick up the mighty bumbum etc etc.
Write something else. Poetry's for dorks in dark bedrooms who never get out. Hahahaha.
No, seriously, try something like a play, or write from the perspective of a serial killer-arsonist-general bad guy--I've been meaning to actually, if you must know... just... to expand my boundaries.
I have to bail. Stuff to do etc etc.
P.S. I never get enough sleep. Maybe 20 hours a work-week, seriously. Not healthy, huh?