so many of us feel hollow inside, a pinata gaudily painted
and fated soon to burst
and though there are those who hoot and holler and proclaim
all is merry all is fine
the hollow ones know that the fuss is all for show
for at the end of the day the glitter and feathers
are cheap camouflage for the cracks that gape open
when she sobs her emptiness into her fingers tapping
up again and up again and up again
the phone reveals nothing new but why not a little more
but if we are hollow all
and even the full ones uneasy bite their lips
perhaps there’s more to this?
then what does this mean if we’ve written off the story
and decided the author’s all for show
i make all my decisions
autonomy and free will and agency
those fine guiding lights
i’d rather be my own
even if it means i call myself a hollow one
who cares if i’m all alone
close your eyes and don’t look to the horizon
there is no shore that beckons that’s only imaginary rain
cry and feel alive once more and scream the chorus
and paint yourselves up again