It's tough holding on
It's tough trying to be selfless
It's tough acting as the glue
That holds all the broken pieces.

It's tough pretending each new day
It's like piling dirt on a corpse
Constantly resurfacing, never fully hidden
Until it's so high, this mound of yours.

But you can't parade a corpse in public
It's smelly. It's ugly. It's dead.
So grab that shovel and dig dig dig
Until your pretty hands are bled.