my life
is going to cost me dearly.
i didn't ask
for any of this.

my body and soul,
signed away before birth.
the devil takes me.
i try to sell my time into slavery:
it's all i've got, it's all i've got.
but i'm dead labour and depressed.

my life
is going to cost me dearly.
i didn't ask
for any of this.

and could it even be
that i'm in fact a lucky one?
aye, but there are luckier still
and always those less fortunate
while history remains that which it was made into;
the higher up you go, the less gratitude there is.
in retrospect, to never have been
would have been more than enough for me.

my life
is going to cost me dearly.
i didn't ask
for any of this.

There is dirt all over my face
Dirt in my hair down to the floor
Big pieces and lumps of dirt
Floating through the space and air

I never have to do the cleaning
I got dirt piled up everywhere
And it crawls out of the woodworks
Like ***** words in ***** laundries

Dirt is dead ***** serious to me
**** makes me ***** happy and free
Like ***** waste and ***** waste of time
Clean dirt makes me want to cry

I got dirt in my liver
And dirt in my brain
I eat dirt for dinner
And I'm ***** insane

Dirt is dirt ***** beautiful to me
Dirt is the fuel and dirt is the light
Stained and sprayed with dirt
I live my ***** life

I've become an alcoholic.
I drink until its socially acceptable
to lock myself in my room
to avoid the plague of humanity
dwelling in the revealing sunlight,
orange caked faces melting into the dirt.

So sweetly is she disposed,
that my teeth start to decompose
from just her lightest kiss.

When I'm buried beneath the dirt,
I hope it's caused by playful flirt,
without her there's no world to miss.

A white poem
A pure poem
A poem that reaches the dirt
underneath your fingernails.

Even the mightiest fall,
their hands positioned to draw,
the gun that will take their life,
going with only an internal fight.

Us fallen,
we do just that.
We don't always ask for a second chance.
Some of us make a choice to get back up,
others would die than be stuck in a rut.

They're hidden,
emotions bidden,
to go away,
to die in the fray,
of which is our existence.
Tattered and torn,
hearts are completely worn.
Forsworn.



Flower petals fall upon the ground,
colors swirling all around.
We begin to wonder if we'll ever be found.
Ground.
Into the dirt.
Nobody cares when we are hurt.
It doesn't matter that we care for you more than ourselves,
we're always burnt.
Ground.
Into the dirt.