living,
is not a matter of life or death,
having a soul,
inhaling,
no,
you see,
i passed away,
lost my soul,
along time ago,
but i can still inhale
my own bitterness,
i can still stand
right in the burning hellfire,
of my own despair,
i can still wait for the rainfall,
thinking it might wash away
my everlasting grave,
and all it did,
is turn me into dust,
even more,
i've held my ashes,
as i was casting away,
but my grave
has been dug too deep,
six
feet
under.

do you know how you live
when the worst has happened
you have no expectations,
no wants or needs,
you become confined in your own misery,
feeding off the scars you left scattered in your bathroom floor

your only viable option,
will be letting go,
your best option,
is
laying
six feet under.

what have i become. .
what have you made of me, mother?
what have you sculpted, brother?

carved to perfection,
into an ivory soulless wreck,
a hopeless mess, high off morbidity and agony,

carved to perfection,
to attend to your lavish needs,
of a stripped youth,
hidden under a blood stained carpet floor,

and you do it so lovingly,
as i reach for air,
when you've buried me
six feet under.

can you hear it?

fragmented echos,
never-ending cries,
of a vivid past,
straining your disguise,
that took the best of you,
burned your bare skin,
corrupted your *****,
telling you this is the way
to finally rise.

I'm yearning
for more
of your misery
to feed off,

salivating
to taste
your sorrows,

glorifying
your sinful scars,

crawling
to catch your soul
while
you brush it off
as you overdose.