Rank of formaldehyde bearing upon my nostrils,
Such love it is to become of these mortals.
The blind eyes resting upon the seeds of caskets,
Until we are all lugging our own guts in baskets.
Ropes tied to rafters, kick the stand we stay,
Snapping our necks to seal future coming days.
Or painting our brains on walls is far better,
To ease upon the paintings of our suicidal letters.
Death entrance, a defeat, capable of pain,
Swallowing pills deeply, bullets left to maim.
Our common season of prey,
Meets our end upon our final resting day.
Now six feet under,
Without reason of wonder,
We hinder in the dark dark hell,
That is too discomforting for show and tell.
Am I sick, yes, further beyond my reach,
So sick it voids any psychiatric schooling to teach.
Pulling plugs, watching catastrophic terror,
Witnessing the misuse in life's common errors.
It all falls back,
To work that I love so well. |
Submission Name: Burial Analysis
