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?
stillfugue 
#1 by Carl D'Agostino on August 31, 2011 - 6:22 pm
I am more worried about the hole in my pocket and in the sole of my left shoe
#2 by Carl on August 31, 2011 - 11:12 pm
At least you don’t have any money in the pocket that has a hole.
#3 by adlrel on September 4, 2011 - 5:46 pm
A friend of mind, J. S. Lee, recommended that I check out your site. I’m so glad she did, for I suffer from bi-polar illness and your writing gives me a great deal of comfort. George Love
#4 by Carl on September 5, 2011 - 9:06 am
Thank you for reading and thank you for commenting. It means a great deal to me.