sitting on a bench losing my brain
wondering how many times it’ll take til I break and submit to the insane
salt dried tears sticking to the wrinkles of my face
I wither and shake in my place staring at the decrepit stagnate lake
with the towering thorns that drape and adorn
the outskirts of the stale and poisonous lurr
the lurr of the land so desperately calling through whispers by the wind


what good are we if we be responsible for committing all the dying?
this, our mess, forever it shall be
until we pick up our faults, stay true to our wits,
and stick to our up most important of all duties
but only if you are looking for all to be free

for now we are burdened, held down by the shackles
the shackles of lies of illusions
shackles of dirty paper flooding our eyes
my cries scream from under out and over
hovering ‘cross this land that has been plundered and synthetically smothered