I don't know how to write happy
When I do, it sounds tired and sappy
So I write the truth
About how I am sad...

My poetry is the kind that gets stuck in your throat
It leaves a bad taste
And it makes you choke

I write things that stick inside of your brain
Words that trap you deep into my pain
I tangle you up in my sad tales spoken
Allowing you to see that I am  broken

Cast an indifferent overcast
upon the coarse gray sands
around my sunken feet imprinted
on the earth grounded by gravity
tortured to look above towards
shrouding skies of hoary scale
with earthly sounds of depths
crashing without compromise
sprinkling comets of aftermath
over my pale bristled skin
shuddering convulsing trembling
in fear of this darkened oblivion.