Six Feet Below The Footprints

And once more, the reason why I left sinks in,
With the thoughts so fucking slurred that even my eyesight grows dim,
It’s grim, just so sad to see, that,
The reflection of the frowning clown going down is me.
That I can’t be free, from
These words that keep thundering in my chest,
It’s difficult to think, with my heart stabbing my vest with protests.
I can’t contest.
I’ve lost so many friends, so I ingest.

This obscene obesity takes my roads from to the right and left.
From the crimes I’ve committed, piracy, plunder and theft,
I’ve opened too many closed ends, and closed too many loose,
That my heart no longer has enough love to produce,
Any thoughts for the future, it just seems so true,
There’s that high probability that my life will stay askew, and un-new,
To the un-foretold bounties of this forsaken couth so I rest in my booth.

True words are spoken by the blood of the man,
Because if he wants something done he will do what he can.
To many or most, they just won’t understand,
Why I prefer to stay deep under the land,
Six feet below the two pairs of footprints in the sand.

(c) Anachronic Works 2011


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