Angele Toomey Poetry

This is what a poem written on my train journey looks like.

I usually take this raw material and type it up with minor changes…

Husk
I have become a husk
A shell of myself,
all but empty
except for the knowledge
of what used to be 
here.

I have become a husk
A thin vaneer,
all but given way
except for the decaying
threads that anchor me
here.

I have become a husk
More hollow 
than my skin
reveals.