Twenty ugly armchairs grunting.

When I feel empty,

It’s not emptiness,

In me,

It’s the empty of plenty,

The twenty I see.

When I enter the room,

For a quick looking-spree,

I find that I’m looking,

At nothing,

But stuffing,

The stuffing of,

Twenty,

Snort-huffing at me.

1:https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8o2786/quiet_places/e00js45/ 2:https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8o1q97/freedom/e00knj8/