Hollow, my good sir, hollow.
No, not like before; this is different.
Hollow like before was a feeling of nothing yet great despair. Hollow like before was the weight of a thousand tons on my body, making it impossible to move or breath. Hollow like before was the impenetrable dread fog that surrounded me from morning to afternoon to evening to a restless sleep.
No, no, no, sir, this is far different.
For while my heart is heavy, it still skips a beat. And the weight, I certainly feel but only in the dark.
You must give me a moment, good sir, for this is quite a predicament.
For hollow before was like a shell. Empty. Now I feel more.. Like a porcelain doll. No, no, not like that. A porcelain doll would shatter under the weight of my heart and lungs alone, no this is different. Something hollowed our but still occupied by something. Not completely empty, not a shell.. Like.. I say good sir, have you heard of a matryoshka? A Russian nesting doll? Yes, yes, now I got it! Like that! I feel like a hollowed being with something still in me. However, that is part of the predicament. For I fear what is in me, for I know not what it is.
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Poetry Sucks: a poetry collection
PoesieA collection of poems written by a dingus who doesn't know how to write poetry. All of these are public domain so you can use 'em in your TikToks or on your MySpace pages. This mainly consists of: -Serious poetry -Vent poetry and, most importantly ...
