the rain is pouring
an old man sits on a bench in an open field and looks up at the sky
he reaches for the shovel
he begins to dig

pondering his life, the failure that it is, he continues
every thrust of the shovel into the ground becomes more spiteful
pure hatred is spewing from his pores
he digs and digs until he is satisfied

every rainy day, the old man returns to dig
for years, he continues to dig
the ladder he brings along with him gets longer and longer
with persistence, he refuses to cease

this old man, full of hatred and discontent
this old man, that digs a hole so deep you cannot imagine
this old man, he is within me
this old man, he controls me

the emptiness I often succumb to can only be described as such
a deep hole built with hatred, not for others but for oneself
a deep hole that consistently gets deeper
on rainy days, I watch as he digs

I yell for him to stop, begging for mercy
he does not hear me, he continues to dig
I sob, I have no control
he does not care, therefore continues to dig

all that is left is me
shallow, empty, dirty, lifeless
the pills are worthless rocks, two or three
I throw them into the hole, expecting fulfillment

the old man returns
it rains, and he digs,
the rocks I have thrown disappear
I’ve been hollowed, what can save me now?