You stab me.
Pin pricks through my scalp.
When hat comes off,
“Carl, you have a hole in your head.”
You stab me.
Millions of openings.
On each journey, my spirit drips.
You watch it all flow, free,
but poisoned by the air of our world
and wonder why I am nothingness.
And why should I be special?
Why should I be sore about being nothing?