Disoriented poem
                                 True nonsense
               But by definition
Does it have purpose
              Tell me for certain
                                 Is it a worthless fraud
                                       Composed of senses’ shells
                                                         Concealing life without the law
                                                             ­                Law of a motive,
                                             One’s reason and justification
                            Now fragmented with a poem
             But is the poem illustration
Symbolic, emblematic,
             Is their truth in its act
                            Of destruction, any thinking?
                                             Shall it raze the moral ground?
                                                         ­  Or far more quickly
                                                         ­                  Blight us all?
                                                            ­                          All in this state, this
                                                            ­                                               fluster,
                                                        ­                                      This plight,
                                                         ­                     All in this way
                                                             ­  That we’re departing

Pondering if I can be forgiven and free
Knowing I deserve to be drowned in the sea
Searching for something to assuage the pain
Hoping out of this something beautiful I gain.

Mistrusting of people around me everywhere
People only curse; not love, not care
Bewildered why I must go through life alone
With paralyzing silence and no friend to phone.

Yearning to break free of my destructive addictions
Rebuking Satan's false and furtive jurisdictions
I embrace the crucifixion and fall to my knee
Beholding my King who died to set me free.

Then kneeling at the cross, the sky breaks with dawn
My tears and my pain are surprisingly gone
As the Son bursts forth in glorious light
Obliterating the dark and malevolent night.

I never look back on my art. Reminds me of my failures.

They always told me of my pneuma,
This creative spirit,
Capable of conquering nations or liberating the unjustly incarcerated
Unearthing fabled, folkloric myths,
With all the pummels I’d expect a brain cyst—
Still, he trudges on,
Like a scapegoat in its farcical, ineffable glee—
Why are you telling me
To manufacture and market my life
Like an indulgent, indulged on swine
Conforming to the convention,
Supporting units of straight edges

What in this straight-edged maelstrom
Can help the creative pneuma
To thrive in a place so confining and restricting
And detrimental to discoveries, breakthroughs,
Spiritual sustenance?

It's been four and a half years since I took my dog, and left the rainy little state of Washington. At seventeen, you never expected me to make a life for myself. I was just your incomplete daughter, whose name you cringed saying. I shouldn't like girls and I shouldn't smoke ***. Music is only a dream and poetry is no real goal. Abigail. You gave me a beautiful name, one I used to cherish. On my birthday, when you (in your drunken stupor) sat me down, over a bottle of wine, I never thought animosity would come from your heart.

I was never empty before, under the misconception of love. You called me hollow, and that word can never be retaken. So I have taken that name, and with it I will pave my own existence.

I am Hollow, nothing else, nothing more.

I am a shell, void of life, lost in the sands.

I can't settle down, because I am cursed to emptiness.

Who wants me?

After all, I am *Hollow.

I met a girl
With a heart to change the world
And a lovely smile

She had a soul
Like cold midnight breezes
And lonely walks

She had eyes
Like grass dancing in the wind
And poison kisses

She had hair
Like a warm fireplace burning
And sunsets

Her mind
Like a hurricane of imagination
And confusion

But she left
Disappeared into herself one day
Forgot me

And I wait
For another void to be filled
In silence

When I fingered the thin skin on my left, vein-bulging limb
Where the forearm adheres to the costly little hand
I realized in all my intense ardor for pain
That there in my penitence, self-pity, self-loathe
I am a narcissist.
Laden with self-obsessed sorrow
There is a selfishness in being a dreary,
To feel for oneself,
When others care too much
An aggregation of sympathizing sobs and tears
Too much for an egoist
Who would rather wallow alone
In the orange-tinted hue of twilight turned nightfall
A ray of the luster in all subtle shades,
Can I summon the force to recall
Why I hate myself
Is it not that all despise me for a purpose?
And those who are inept at reasonable loathe
Are marooned in deep shame
That they had degraded themselves for what?
For a felon? Such as myself?
Deep in such sorrow,
Deep in my self-loathe
I have encountered the truth of all fruitless self-regard
I am a narcissist, egoist, one who self-loathes
Who slashes and severs and cannot speak love