That's so sad, like not drinking anymore could leave a hole in us. Well, I just wanna say that it's NOT nothing, it sure is something! And it's a good something!
This poem feels like a man sitting quietly inside the ruins and beginnings of himself, listening for any sound that might still anchor him to the world.
The stillness he describes is not emptiness but a fragile shelter, a place where he can finally hear the faint movements of his own mind.
Even the raven’s tiny drop‑like call becomes a kind of visitation, a reminder that the world still reaches him, even gently.
His question about aiming toward nothing carries the tremble of someone afraid that silence might swallow him instead of save him.
You can feel the thin line he walks between healing quiet and the old darkness that once tried to claim him.
When he admits he banished drink, the poem opens like a wound, revealing the private battles that sobriety never fully names.
His return to himself feels hesitant, tender, like someone relearning how to inhabit a body without numbing it.
The “nothing” he makes room for is not void but a clearing, a small, sacred space where breath can settle without fear.
There is a deep, aching gentleness in the way he watches the world, as if trying to trust its small movements again.
In the end, the poem becomes a confession of survival: that sometimes the only way back to oneself is through a silence that holds rather than erases.
That's so sad, like not drinking anymore could leave a hole in us. Well, I just wanna say that it's NOT nothing, it sure is something! And it's a good something!
This poem feels like a man sitting quietly inside the ruins and beginnings of himself, listening for any sound that might still anchor him to the world.
The stillness he describes is not emptiness but a fragile shelter, a place where he can finally hear the faint movements of his own mind.
Even the raven’s tiny drop‑like call becomes a kind of visitation, a reminder that the world still reaches him, even gently.
His question about aiming toward nothing carries the tremble of someone afraid that silence might swallow him instead of save him.
You can feel the thin line he walks between healing quiet and the old darkness that once tried to claim him.
When he admits he banished drink, the poem opens like a wound, revealing the private battles that sobriety never fully names.
His return to himself feels hesitant, tender, like someone relearning how to inhabit a body without numbing it.
The “nothing” he makes room for is not void but a clearing, a small, sacred space where breath can settle without fear.
There is a deep, aching gentleness in the way he watches the world, as if trying to trust its small movements again.
In the end, the poem becomes a confession of survival: that sometimes the only way back to oneself is through a silence that holds rather than erases.
this is such a beautiful analysis of this poem 🥹 it's a poem in and of itself! we're glad to see it resonated with you so deeply 💙
I banished the drink
in order to live.
I returned
to myself
by making room
for nothing.
!!!
This is beautiful
Such simplicity packed with sound and meaning. A life lesson to readers as well. Bravo!
So much in so little wow! The last two stanzas ring in my ears (in a good way) 🥰