yes, it is empty
these are the poems he meant to write
every night when he went upstairs
hid in the attic from the world he knew
he poured out ink and tears and blood
scrawled on loose paper
wadded it
tossed it in corners
we have collected the ones we found
unwadded them
flattened them
tried to read the scrawls and the blurs
tried putting them in different orders
tried to understand
tried so hard to understand
too late of course
he needed that before the night
but none of us knew
none of us knew
surely one of us
two of us
three of us
some number of us
would have done something
talked to him
or listened
I think no one ever listened
except to explain to him
what he must not say
until perhaps
there was nothing left he could say
just as there was nothing he ever found to write
in that empty book
and somewhere he found that gun
taught himself how to use it
then on the night
let himself down from the attic
he found and he killed
his teacher
the principal
his father
all of them men
he even tried to kill the preacher
but that one
dived through a window and ran away
and the boy
the young man
whatever he was
alone in that office
set it afire
and shot himself dead
leaving behind this emptiness
and so many questions
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