All alone I stew and sit
Digging through a pile of ****

Ever-growing, more foul than before
A sight and stench I've grown to abhor

From here and there, from cracks all around
Steaming and screaming an excruciating sound

I do the things I need to survive
If I'm to make it out alive

With hands, fingers I toss and scoop
And no, this poem is not about ****