Stuck in a tar pit,
A black hole in which I sit.
Sighs, cries I can’t swallow.
Streaked, pale yellow sorrow.
Whining and wiping,

Pity’s hand pulls my head back until
Truth easily sees my stomach.
She grimaces, the tears that crawled
Past cheeks and lips are molding.
They have eyes and fingers that

Poke, ****, pinch, and pull apart potential passion.
Pity of the mind sets the mindset.
I can’t see past the four feet tall walls,
My neck strains to see above infinite,
Poor me, poor me.