Hollow

Everything I do is hollow -
empty to the eyes -
I can't find food to give my words;
they glow for none but mine.
Pretty as the lines may be,
they move me close to dead:
I watch my heart lose blood and steam;
they think the ink looks red.

I try to claw the message out,
and hollower I get -
pathetic sieve, my soul may be;
it's catching less and less.
I doubt I'll tire of bleeding, though -
I'll never leave my skin
to peace or nails away from it;
I'll always dig them in -
and someday soon, I'll find the vein
that makes the masses bend -
bringing scarlet to the surface
just to fill another pen.


~

Age when written: 16