We are pretty pictures
             under hollow frames.

Never realizing that which
                          holds us together.

Is just as important than
                                what people see,
when were momentarily observed.

I’d look upon the hollow sky
Watching the birds fly by
Feeling like a lone wolf on a crowded street
dreaming of the traveler’s breeze
Letting the heat touch my covered skin
With all my mind sunk in the blue sea
I’ll be somewhere the birds would be
When winter strikes my hollowed heart
I’ll find places with dreamers like me
Looking upon the hallow sky
Drowning in crowded places
Made for people with hopeless dreams
And I’ll walk through the rain
Ripping through the man made seams
And find my place  in the hallow sky
Where I could fly in a traveler’s dream
Alone no more, just being me.

In the heart of us are a set of bagpipes
that blows the beat of a drum
but is described as a hollow *****,
like one in a church that echoes deep whalesong
in the midst of a funeral.
Our mom had rules for visiting the newly departed, lest their spirits attach to ours:
Take home no food, or the dead will hunger.
Wash your clothes, or the dead will wear your skin.
Don’t go straight home, or the dead will follow.
Starved and naked, we wandered
through IKEA and nearby coffee shops
to deposit our lost and beloved friend in a final resting place
before heading home
our empty and quiet home.

Your sentences were gated,
And locked within your lungs -
Your words forbidden fruit to me,
The apple of your tongue.
The uninspired oft’ find it hard
To leave another’s song unsung.

So I harvested your phrases -
I burglarized your breath,
And nurtured all your laden words
‘Till there was nothing left.

And living with your hollowed words,
I died a stolen death.

I can only ever
appear unbroken
in front of
other people’s eyes.

Inside, all I see
is a tangled line
of confusion,
in a pile of
never ending depression.