the pretty weight of dirt.

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  • Sadness

    the pretty weight of dirt.

    i hate the taste of dirt in my mouth.
    it grinds itself between my teeth.
    and coats my tongue.
    it's an insurmountable weight pressing on my chest.
    and i can't breathe.
    oh god,
    i can't breathe.

    i am below the dirt.
    i am not worth the weight of your shoes,
    the scuff of your heel,
    the tip of your toe.
    i can't feel the rain
    there is too much dirt.
    im suffocating.
    and you can't hear me.

    i wont let you see me.
    i won't let you near me.
    i won't let you believe in me.
    i won't let you.
    but don't cry.
    it's better this way.
    trust me.

    i am the earthquake beneath torn sneakers.
    i shake with fear,
    with hatred,
    with a wish.
    i smell the dirt.
    i taste the dirt.
    i feel the dirt.
    i am the dirt that you will never see.
    you can't dig deep enough to find me.
    im so far below you.
    so far.

    and i can't breathe.
    dirt fills my mouth and nose
    i am suffocating.
    dirt fills my lungs.
    i am being crushed.
    dirt fills my soul.
    oh god.

    please.



    i hate the taste of dirt in my mouth.
    it flows through the blood.
    and weighs you down.
    i hate the feel of dirt in your heart.




    i hate this depression.

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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