hollow poetry

Somehow I wish you knew - how every word is for you… every breath and heartbeat too. Every thought. Every dance, I danced alone, I wish I danced with you. Every sky that I have looked upon. Every tear that I let go of… Every ache inside my soul, and every face I look away from - I only longed to turn and look at you.
—  Helaena Moon
I’m a lost soul wandering constantly in this world full of temporary things. Everything that I will hold will eventually be gone. If there’s one thing I know, it’s that no one can promise anything. The people I loved became the people I lost.
—  Iriss
Henry IV Part 1 (as Terrible Meme Poetry)

my nayme is hal and wen it’s nite
or wenn the moone is shining brite
yu will not find me in my bed
i’m getting drunke with frends insted

i so like being debotched and wylde
father wantes hotspur as his chylde
but he is in for big surprise
he will see his bright son rise

i will fite for dad and country
even if i change abruptly
i will impress while he’s alyve
Henree four, meet Henree fiyve


I’m hollow.
No value, no meaning, no purpose.
Because that’s the definition of ‘hollow’ –
Isn’t it?

But as the hollow guitar
creates perfect song
And a hollow box
carries a gift
And hollow bones
allow birds to soar.

I could be hollow
And beautiful

smoke from the chimney, log cabins on the moon

I carved a hollow place in the moon for you; I built a log cabin where a spaceship should be. When you arrive,  you will never have to swallow the poison of oxygen – never be told to hold your breath.

The craters are good places to play. When you fall, Gravity won’t curse you. When you speak, the words will float into expansion and you will be heard across the universe. 

We will build a home where love is not disrupted by satellite signals. You will understand what it is like to orbit something only beautiful from a distance. I will give you history books and religious texts

and teach you that fear is the murderer of millions. We will laugh at the lovers laying on blankets and staring at us, promising our home to one another.

When it is cold, we will burn rocket fuel but never tell ghost stories. We will vacation where the sun cannot pollute our skin cells. The arch of constellations will be meaningless 

until we create our own shapes. 

The perfect girl is an illness,
needless, and cotton-candy thoughtless.

She says, yes, it’s fine, okay.

With a laugh like an empty box,
Schrödinger’s girl is both
dead and alive,
existing only the moment
you need her.

The perfect girl is a hollow space,
ready to be filled,
ready to be discarded,
object impermanent.

And what a pretty way to die,
slowly in sinched-waist-inches,
and then all at once
on her thirtieth birthday.

—  am kennedy, “The Hollow Women”
Hollow Bones; Like The Birds

I hollowed my bones

With a stick and a spoon,

Took the perfect feathers

To fly to the moon.

Made of starlight

Set with superglue,

Perhaps they can also

Fetch me to you?

I searched over the ocean,

Attempted to swallow

The feeling of missing

That rendered me hollow.

Though bashed by the wind,

And though my arms ache,

You whispered; I knew,

It was not a mistake.


I always fall until I float
In and out of love
With others
With myself
In and out of happiness
Until my glass is empty
Waiting to be filled again

Why am I always waiting for something?
I need to be actively questioning
Actively seeking
That’s what makes the waiting worth it
Always unraveling my double helix
That holds all of my thoughts and experiences
Weaving in and out of crowds of clones
To locate the original copy
The real inner me

The simple shadows I project on the outside
Continually mature over time
They’re beginning to match the colorful chaos
That runs rampant on the inside
Dancing all night
Singing swan songs
Making love until dawn

I live in a nomadic broken shell
Might as well make the best of it


We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us-if at all-not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer-

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

—  “The Hollow Men” by T. S. Eliot, 1925