I can't take this anymore
No need to fire me
I fire myself
I give up
This is not my job

Polished and refined,
With death I have found
A life below ground
A place I can call mine
Destruction and evil deeds
A breeding of pure hate
Is all that I can create
Out of all these heartless seeds

I punch them in
To the deep sullen dirt
Water them with vengeance
And a sprinkling of hurt
Tonight is the night
I find what dwells below
I don't have a key
But I can bargain with my soul
As I place it into these seeds
I am but reeds in the grass
I'm letting go
Only Heaven knows
The blackness of Hell's wrath

I plant my lifeless soul in this plot
To groom it as it grows
So slowly that nobody knows
It's the place the devil goes to rot
Watered with tears, warmed with fire
And as time stands still, never changing
This fruition of evil continues growing
Until the depths of hell can go no higher

Then it will bloom
A flowering gloom
Growing out of control
The ground will harden
In this here garden
Fertilized by my soul

We are not really broken
until we are broken
       and then we mend
and break again
      until our bones
become smashed
to smithereens
mapped into tiny lines
         and cracks
with some darkness
        in between
white matter, crushed
             into jigsaw pieces,
laden with blood, with spit, with silt
until the despair
that fear releases
interacts with self-blame
           and guilt
And how they weigh upon us,
these layers of pain
like heavy blankets
on our contours, in the dark
the maze of our pasts
thick upon us
as we strive to envision
                             a spark
perhaps just a tiny glowing,
at first, a barely felt
shadow of light
a glimmer, a whisper of
           knowing,
a drive urging us on
           to fight
and all of our minerals
rub off in sparkling crystals
as we brush up
against the walls
of that ever-blackened tunnel
as we stumble
and steady the fall
feeling a subterranean rumble
a shifting of perspective
as we battle questions,
spinning thick
into the whirlpool of our yearning
into molten metals, slick
We might think we can snap
                           with the ease
of a lonely brittle star
that tomorrow
could be a tribute,
              in lacerations
to the last trace
            of who we are
but it can happen, as we
sit upon, plan the edge
              of our last breath        
                       deep, subtle beats
                        of truth rise up
                to repel the scent
          of death
and, in pulses of light
                  it drifts
bends in willowy arcs
upon our soul it trips
******* light out
from the dark
and all the sharpened hooks
that kept us chained
         to the abyss
are released as
              we break free
into heaven's rolling kiss
feeling the flutters
of a new, kind breeze upon our skin
as Life's vast impulse
courses through us
     and simply wins
and the only demise
we're mourning
is the death of
          of a dormancy,
a resistance to again
receive and give
as we embrace
those little, precious instincts
that tell us to keep on
and choose
            to live