Poetry--Hole
Hole
I know exactly how it sounds, like the shriek of the wind
As the corner of a building carves the air into abysmal tones-
And this hole grows bigger.
My skin felt it, your gentle caress that became a lie, when all you left
Me with was a receipt that catalogued each time you fucked me-
And this hole grows bigger.
Daily I taste it, but my satisfaction barely lingers
Long enough to swallow. As the aftertaste grows bitter
On my tongue, I wonder how much more I must eat to stay full-
And this hole grows bigger.
My eyes see it, the glow of a neon sign in the night
That teases me with manufactured hope, which I can purchase inside the store-
And this hole grows bigger.
I still smell it, the overpowering scent of commercialism
And Chanel perfume. The aroma etherizes me, and helps me forget-
That this hole is only growing bigger.
-David Orsbon
I know exactly how it sounds, like the shriek of the wind
As the corner of a building carves the air into abysmal tones-
And this hole grows bigger.
My skin felt it, your gentle caress that became a lie, when all you left
Me with was a receipt that catalogued each time you fucked me-
And this hole grows bigger.
Daily I taste it, but my satisfaction barely lingers
Long enough to swallow. As the aftertaste grows bitter
On my tongue, I wonder how much more I must eat to stay full-
And this hole grows bigger.
My eyes see it, the glow of a neon sign in the night
That teases me with manufactured hope, which I can purchase inside the store-
And this hole grows bigger.
I still smell it, the overpowering scent of commercialism
And Chanel perfume. The aroma etherizes me, and helps me forget-
That this hole is only growing bigger.
-David Orsbon