Living this conflicting life of regret and reality
living this conflicting life of confrontations and morality,
treading on this weak link of trust and animosity.
Living in this fear that what if those memories ever return,
or if am I even human enough to live with them.

Past days of bloodshed and lead bullets,
past life of hate and dead merits,
these ghosts from my past seem to be chained in me,
they almost seem to breathe with me.
Not knowing anymore, would I survive this chaos,
not knowing anymore, am I willing to escape this pathos,
not wanting to accept If the past was indeed the real me.
or am I still stuck in this labyrinth carved in me?

Everyday battling this conflict,
everyday holding on to the leash,
I live with this emotional rust and creeping insanity.
Waiting for my tryst with death,
Aching for my ending days of rest,
I tend to wander afar in my head,
and again end up in my soul instead.
If life was somewhat different at this frame of time,
Then what new flavors of suffering would I have encountered.
Or what new warmth of smiles I would have seen.

people roll around in trash
in greasy wrappers
and tangerine peels
they mosh and jump
in an endless garbage mass
a shard of broken glass
in their ash-filled air-pump
but they never for a second
struggle to breathe

it's one big waste bin
cardboard boxes collapse
metal cuts through skin
plastic sticks to the wound
glass is cold and sharp
the people, seemingly doomed
exist and pass energy around
with a loud spirited sound

people roll around in dirt
and when they're done
they go, they come back home

with specks of wind
whirring in their ears
stirring the desires
of their blood-pumping vessels
silver string in their hair
turns out to be wire

sweaty, red foreheads
with earth smeared all over
clothes green from grass
and greener from clover

people roll around in trash
people roll around in dirt
and so do i, don't you see
the obvious stains on my shirt?