Dennis Watson

Dirt, by Dennis Watson

They say we are formed from & then returned to… It can also be held against if someone else knew… The truth can set you free, but leave you in agony at the same time… When it’s thick it becomes mud, but also has the capability to blind eyes… As I try to lift the ton of it that covers me… It becomes more of a struggle to keep the love in me… Something from above makes people close commend me for the growth that I’ve made… If they only knew how I dig in the dirt as my time as a slave… This shallow grave becomes more full with more rules that become easily broken… If time is frozen then why is it only the Grimm Reaper I have seemed to elope with? Has anyone noticed my length of disappearance? Beyond the dirt, the cadaver dog can’t find where my scent is… I’m in search to only find the chemist for the remedy to constrict my lungs so I can begin to breathe… Just to bust out of this loose concrete like a zombie & begin to feed… Whether it’s under fingernails, or held against someone to create hurt… It only washes away temporarily, but it will always be, Dirt…

Dennis J. Watson
DOC #A632936

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