Feeding the ground.

All the burdens
of keeping at it
of cleaning it up
of having enough
even if that’s speculation
and not fact
it creeps in
wrapping the cords
of this structure
around
our wrists
our necks
our chests
our legs
as we twist
we try to scream
your ears hearing the screams
my ears taking it in
and our brains blocking it
because it’s real
and it isn’t
tangible it is
I can hold the living world
these material things
but beneath my feet they break
they become piles of rubbish
we sort through
and I’m here to say sorry
that I shall try
to keep the words kind
and be that of passion
rather than a body of turmoil
although I feel pain
that is nothing but metaphorical
words they designate inside of me
and I can’t always block out
just reason I suppose
I try
I fail
and I say I’m sorry
I’ll try to be that of compassion
rather than a body of turmoil
feeding the ground
with that of hate tinged flesh.

Thanks for reading.
-Temperamentally Tina