My eyes are filled with themselves,
silver-reflected through almost clean glass.
The sight is hateful to me,
but my eyes do not notice.
They merely stare back,
dull and brown.
I try to put anger, passion, joy on my face.
To see life in those eyes.
Frantic for anything more than white
marred with faint red
The frantic does not touch my eyes.
They merely stare back.
They take and take, gluttonous;
filled with reds, greens, blues;
devouring love and pornography;
a dull-grey knife with crimson edge
for dull-brown eyes.
But they have nothing to give.