Hollow. Poem by Derrick Andrews

Try as I might to get back on my feet,
The pain and the agony's stuck on repeat,
I'm trying to maintain them while staying on beat,
But it seems like my goals are too arduous to meet.

I halted my progress and yielded to fate,
There's nothing I love more than loving to hate,
The people around me that choose to debate
My choices in life, which appear to be bait-

For the aid of a hand that was itching to 'save',
A poor man in a hole that would soon be his grave.
He accepts the 'assistance', and chose to behave,
But was forced to conform, and turned into a slave.

He toiled and sweated, he bled and he cried,
And for which he had worked for, he solemnly died.
But pity him not, for he was not denied,
The sweet retribution for which he had strived.

His hate became fury and covered his face,
Til' a mask of resentment was there in its place
So muddled and scarred that no mother's embrace-
Could repeal the emotions he couldn't replace.

So he molded, deformed, and turned to a beast.
His anger set sight on his heart, as a feast,
It ate away merrily, but suddenly ceased,
Creating a blade from the very last piece.

His soul took on shape, and he took on rage.
And he burst forth, a demon now, out of his cage.
He took up his dagger, and took to the stage,
And slaughtered the writer who'd sullied his page.

Who labelled him something that deemed him so poor,
Who offered a hand that was really a lure,
To a fate more repulsive than being manure,
The fate of enslavement to someone unpure.

His story never ended, his pain never shrunk.
To the depths of his hell, his heart sadly sunk.

There's no happy ending, no smiles in his wake,
Just painful recollections of a daunting mistake.

The horrid, shameful truth he tried not to accept,
A man who trusts freely, is always in debt.