It's just a constant fit of unnecessary flicking on the skull of humans
Who struggle to be free.
The drums drum:
To run, to run;
To dig graves,
To suffocate these earsplitting languages.
My shovel sings a shaky, muffled dirge
Between soil crumbles
And screeching pebbles.
I'll bury your mud puddle minds in order
To grow a farm of brain stems.
Maybe then you'll sip my truth
Sloppily down your gullet,
Instead of choking from disgust
When your lips sweep the cups ridge.