This Poem is Nothing

This poem is nothing.

It contains nothing.

It’s as bland as pasta,

It’s dull like off white walls,

and has no point in existing.

It’s as interesting as maths and murky like fog.

Yet, you’ve kept reading.

There’s no story.

It’s storyless as a cardboard box,

it’s as emotionless as a vase.

Why are you still reading?

There’s nothing like space.

Is it as cold as a freezer?

Or hot like an oven?

Is it dark as a black hole?

Or bright as a candle?

You don’t know?

Neither do I.