9 PM Crying Session (:

How must you call yourself a crisis worker, When you hang up so scurry, After you so have chosen to start a war with the word “dwell”? How must you call yourself a crisis worker, When you fortune tell I’d remain in my mom’s driveway Within the next approximate 5 years by now? How must you call yourself a crisis worker, When you package one soul after one other, Like stamping one product after the next one? How must you voluntarily attend to souls, Without ever seeing the skeletons, That remained snared? How must you voluntarily attend to souls, Without ever grieving for the hearts, That ever-so kept jumping in spite of absolute everything? How must you voluntarily attend to souls, Without ever truly going deeper Than 6 feet under unburdened land? You say I need to take deep breaths, I say you need to grab a trusty shovel. You say I need to have compassion for myself, I say you need to grab a compassionate metal detector. You say it’s up to me, I say it’s bystanders like you who’s up for bystanding; What else shall I do, As I have everlessly wanted to twin with your agenda? Your words are anything but fruitful or even vile; A blind paradox with a sword that will never embrace. You think being paradoxical will riddle me, Yet I witness the graveyard you helped decorate. You think being paradoxical will conquer me, And yet you think you’ll conquer, As if it was even a conquering duel in the first place. You think being paradoxical will solve me, And yet you will always conquer every argument you start, As if it was you setting the stage for the graveyard; You are so right that this world is like rocks, You are so right that I have many directions, You are so right that it’s my story, But when I say grab equipment, You’ll never see my tongue flow like dancing waves; A jaw for a femur.