An indescribable urge
To fill that space
With rage, with sorrow,
With anything
But nothing.

The blind hope
To fill that starchy yellow page
With words
With passion
With meaning.

But summoned up,
Because of a need
To fill.

Tears not falling
Because they themselves
wish to fall.

Fists not slamming
Into desks,
Into imaginary faces,
Because they want to,
But because they need to.

To stop from feeling cold,
From being empty.
Anything but that.

And what of those fists, those tears?
Are they completely without meaning?
Unreal?
Conjured up,
Out of nothing,
To fill a pitch black
Cavity,
Boring its way
Deeper and deeper,
Into that flat,
Bony
Chest?

What good do they do,
But fill up a page
With words,
Phrases.
Even then the page is blank.

Hollow.

Bloody stains,
Salty, reckless tears
On imagined faces
Coming from imagined problems,
Only to fill
A gaping,
Yearning,
Formless
Hole.