How dark is it in your coffin of despair?

In the deep hole that you dug even deeper?

You brought a shovel to your pity party,

then sealed your tomb shut with nails made of thin air.

I bet its quite disorienting in there, isn’t it?

You wallow in your corner of filth, mud, and muck,

but then complain about the wetness of morning dew, with an interminable shiver.

Your body convulses. A self-induced seizure.

You knee-Jerk; Clawing at the crumbling edges of your infinite pit of shame,

expecting the roots to grab hold of you and drag you out;

A welfare state of mind. You lazy fuck,

You fail to realize that you are merely five feet under, and refuse to stand tall to see it.

If only you did, you would observe the sunrise from the east again,

you would smell the fresh air, feel the flowers, and listen to the trees dance in the wind.

You could climb out of your own free will, and have a picnic on the cemetery lawn.

Only then would you see that my hole is already filled and mowed over.

Wherever you go, let your feet leave lasting imprints,

not to be washed away by tomorrow’s tide.

Turn every object you touch into something special,

not just another trinket from the five and dime.

And plant the seeds of inspiration,

into every mind, you happen to meet.

Sign your name BOLDLY,

make it monstrous,

scribble it off the edges of the page,

and always use permanent ink.