Hollow Doesn’t have to be a bad word Hollow Doesn’t have to mean “empty” And “missing”
When I listen It means there is a container Wrapped tight And taut in something warm The hide of a once wild and free animal is now a fate reverberated as another passionate, wild being Strikes it Sparks the potential aflame Into a sprout of a heartbeat
Or it is The fog Once aimless and reaching Until it finds a lighthouse Its beam also reaching for it So when light strikes the micro droplets Each effervescent molecule Is lit in the turn of the path In each passing round An orchestra plays
That is the word “Hollow” To me
contemplation of the quality of a sound sample while producing a song
Wretched voice Boxed so thin Rubbed-raw noise Sandpaper skin Beaten crest Lasts for years Naked nest November tears The season’s stall Before the laughs The worst of all The ugly path A sun burned green I waste away While they all wait For bright Friday.
Purple is your voice, Soft as running fingers through groves of lavender— Gentle on my ears. Pink is your favourite, Ironic with your wardrobe being a black hole As you've called your beautiful mind. Though it shows, Your soft giggles And the heartwarming way you talk to yourself As you write. White is our curious relationship, Occasional exchange of calls online And open to more. Like the canvas you paint on.
I'd like to be close. As my mind is too, A black hole. I hope you find curiousity there As I do find in yours— Because darkness is an unusual thing Which pushes people away, Yet draws them in. Black are the shadows which follow us, Darkest in the day, And hidden in the night.