Had a dream while sitting at the edge of a hole where they had removed a stone and the mold was soft to the touch that I had died, but also said to myself that Were I dead, I wouldn't be able to dream I have growth on the side, which looks innocent like the one I had surgery on, the new one is on my back and tends to be ignored I must see a doctor again before the ulcer sprouts a green plant that has a red rose that needs to be handled, not by a gardener The hole had turned into a newly dug grave I didn't care for this dream, wished it would I assured my frightened self that I was not dead, and the self said I will believe that if You wake me up at eight
What happens when your jaws pay for their flaws When they shut the doors to their vows What happens when your joy becomes their foe When they sow disappointments they promised you'd never know What happens when they stop so low Inflicting a pain that will never go.
