Occupation of the Unoccupied

Emptiness occupies every
Fiber of my being
Every nook, every pothole
Filled to the brim with nothing
Yet who knew that nothing
Could feel so heavy?

What is emptiness, really?
To be empty is to be devoid substance
Filling, meaning, stuffing
To lack what makes up an entity
To be empty is to, theoretically,
Be nothing more than a shell
A harness of everything to fit together
To make up something beautiful

What if a person's shell
Is made of emptiness, though?
How is one supposed to live
Believing that one day
The ingredients to their perfect existence
Will fall into place inside them?
What if the meaning of your existence
Is right where it's been the entire time?

The amount of nothing that creates me
Is overwhelming. Pressurizing the shell
It has fit into for so long
Making its presence clear, permanent
Every life has a meaning
Every story has words to fill the pages
The meaning of the life I lead
Is to shelter all of the emptiness
From every other cavity to ever have existed
Or so it seems

Nobody else has vacancy in their life
I know this for a fact;
I know this because if anybody else
Had the innards my crust contains
My shell would be rendered useless
If useless, it wouldn't exist
Because nothing is in this world
That doesn't belong in it

Place your emptiness in with mine
And fill your bucket with meaning
It isn't your place to feel what I do
It's only your job to take the stuffing
That would be filled by me
If I, in fact, didn't have the niche
Of being left so empty