Nothing comes from Something

The well is full.
A veritable over spilling.
But it's dry.
Whisps of poetic tumble weed drift.
And sick eyes look on.
Nothing comes from nothing.
But it can also come from something.
Cluttered cupboard of cross words.
Shouting in the dark.
Mute in the face of an overwhelming maelstorm.
Muted by the mulch.
Lost in the static of a word-filled brain.
Without a single poetic drain.