Hollow, I am
I come from the spared rod, the leather belt worn only by wear
Not by whipping lashes, stinging whelps, or drawing tears.
I am the unbroken soft-boiled egg’s spineless shell
My guts are spoiled yellow yolk, my gall is sulfuric rot,
These all products of the spared rod.
I hail from the hand-out trophy awarded yet unearned,
A painted gold plastic player inches tall on a marble-high pedestal,
A mock of me that proudly I received and thought a glorious a thing,
Though signified it nothing but a mock of me,
That made possible my ruin– the hand-out trophy.
MY Generation, why?
Mold, moldy, and continuously molding..
Is this what you wanted of us?.