Thursday, January 19, 2017


I guess it didn't turn out like I painted,
I'm not sure if it's the brush or the paper that's tainted,
It seems like I've been pouring my soul into broken roots,
That's my explanation why this tree doesn't bear any fruits,

But I keep pouring into these broken roots,
Trying to resurrect something and remain resolute, 
So I return and stare at these blank pages,
With the weight on my shoulders pushing me over life's edges,

I'm not too surprised that these figments of suicide exist,
When you're gone you need a way out like a highway exit,
Can't seem to remember where I'm going without forgetting who I am,
Damn, Line-up the firing squad and let them take aim,

I'll pour concrete over these broken roots when the sun goes to sleep,
Slaughter this tree as if it where an outcasted sheep,
And I'll make a pyre out of it for all the foliage,
Then I wouldn't have to answer any questions about these broken roots.

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