weep for the worm, child

My affective life is getting out of hand, largely in your hands,
where abuse is second nature and our egos are battling
front and center while our souls sit back,
relaxed, enjoying the break from consciously existing.

And while our bodies fling insults our words can't fully execute,
our mouths are moving but our souls are rooted.
not moving, observing, and appreciating
what it feels like to fall apart

Examining mistakes condemning the night prove regret
disguised as a master of contempt for honesty’s plight
the hole in bad habits has grown a layer of contaminate
where communication caved

So we return to our bodies, mid sentence, unfinished
as volatile intentions begin plotting  to unearth the soil within us,
in the pastures of our souls digging deep days of  hate
to plant weeds of turmoil to sprout on rainy days.