Digging your own Grave?
Digging your own Grave?
How eager your lips spill with contempt for any step you must take. Never forced to be as you are, yet you slither with slime, sulking in the suffering of your own making. Your eyes drivel with tears as if the world should feel pity.
Your back slouched in answer of your own lack of self confidence. You confine your sorrows in drinks or, the bitter taste of your sour tongue. Contorting words with jealousy as you waddle your way with billowed blame.
Your heavy heart rests at the bottom of your gut, like a forgotten memory, rotting. Stuck in a rut, your eyes fixed downward. Looking to your feet as you raise your hand to the sky with a finger of criticism of those that speak well.
You kneel as the soils beneath your frail bones become sullied in tears. No longer can it bear the standing pressure of your chiding thoughts. You must spread your weight upon your soft ground. Your foundation is uncertain.
But you still find it your right to talk hostile toward the heavens. You cover yourself in spit of sloth and cry out as you place dirt upon your head and call it a crown. You crawl in the mud of your filth and still scream in ailments of misery.
Your face dreary of poor perception. You see those that pass with chests pressed forward and eyes gazing to stars; they smile while you only weep. You resent such things as you dig deeper in the hollows of your ribs.
Slowly the death of hope fades becoming inaudible as you no longer listen, only speak. You look to the damned as if they are family. For they too convey their likeness for gloom. They too wallow in infernal filth. They too degrade themselves as if a flower that shall never bloom.
Drab be their faces as yours. Likeness is almost a mirror, a reflection. Cursing the clouds, the space beyond. Dragging your knees till there is bone no more and you are but a wailing echo prickling with thorns. You drown in the rain of your shame and mockery of those that still walk.
You wander with each passing day as night becomes day and day is no more. You wonder why none come to lift you. To give you their bones, their smile to raise you from your grave.
Have you not thought, that it is but you who placed you in such scorn? Have you not seen that it has been your own squalor that has made you a whimpering slave? If not, then I fear there is nothing for us to repave.
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I once was a squalling slave to my thoughts and my actions. I once blamed the world as many do.
Are you blaming what should not be blamed? Are you digging yourself a grave before you have yet to die? Are we forgetting to take responsibility of our own existences?
None of us are perfect, A Man's Traveled Heart
Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words
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