The Hole in my Whole There's something I've been searching for, but no X to mark my spot, It might exist it's all around it's nothing and it's gone, It's the grotesque dreams that leave us craving, In the consuming lust that sweeps us off our feet, Self-Inhalent death tools, call them Cigarettes, At the bottom of a bottle, as it drowns you inside-out. Why won't the hole fill, It has no shape but every shape, why won't the hole fill? Whilst busy being the being in me, Beggers hands inside my throat, though they are not poor, they take and snatch, with greed and disrespect, They drive my body, incubate, and lurk inside of me, they break out when I breathe in, lightheaded and high, let the wretched feast of nothingness, never-ending, begin.
