I am broken, and I do not know why,
I want to fix me, but I cannot try.
What’s busted inside will not be fixed.

Its pervasive and deep, like an old ****,
Though I pull and pull it will not heed.
Sometimes emptiness cannot be nixed.

My garden has grown dull and dreary,
My hands and muscles long since weary.
Though still I till my barren field.

My skin darkened by the baleful sun,
Though only small victories are won.
Said work ensures my fate is sealed.

From this labor my soul is chiral,
As I toil onwards to the downward spiral.