I haven’t written poetry in months. For some reason, this poem kept nagging at me this morning, so I finally wrote it down. I haven’t posted a poem in a long time anyway, so here’s a glimpse into my dark, cynical mind.
Meaning behind the name: When you die, they typically bury the body six feet down. However, I already feel like I’m suffocating. It’s as if I’ve already been in the ground six feet, and they keep adding more dirt.
NINE FEET DOWN
My skin tainted red with all the thoughts that I’ve bled,
A swirl of emotion that I know all too well,
It drips down the wrist,
Everything goes to hell,
But it’s all swell here,
Been going on empty ,
So long it’s tempting,
Whispers of normalcy,
Slide through the door
But I don’t know if I want more,
My lungs full of dirt,
I’ve gotten used to the hurt,
Nine feet down because six wasn’t enough,
The dirt keeps going,
My lungs about to bust for air,
My thoughts in tatters,
I always feel shattered,
To care or not to care?
The question is always in the air,
No one plays fair,
I try not to bare,
I’d rather die than cry,
I don’t know why,
And I don’t pretend to find the cause,
Do I really have the balls?
To say what I feel,
I know that I’m real,
But I desperately wish I wasn’t,
Forever exhausted yet mind awake,
I see things that can sometimes make,
Me wonder why I’m even alive,
But shovel the dirt while I cry.