I bend double under the weight of my world,

my back shaking as it evolved to crawl from the sea.

And towards my ever-abstract targets angled,

I turn my back on their praise, feeling unworthy.

I yearn some days to work asleep, my joy lost to the muck;

But all must walk on, whether of empty eye or mind,

lost to all life's smallest beautiful interrupts,

even when they blind.

 

Talk! TALK! Quick men, an ecclesiastic race of thoughts

Covering with smiling masks, to trick those who care.

But someone still screamed, too far into darkness caught,

They writhed under your judging stares,

while nothing "could be done," "could be helped,"

As deep under this pressured, darkened sea, I watched them drown.

 

So many nights, I still see that last breath they gulped,

As I failed to relieve them or cause any rebound.

 

If in some strangling dreams, you could stand

By that casket, walking along the funeral road,

And see the world continue on aslant,

While we feel our very souls corrode.

If you could hear, at every breath,

The sound of your own voice denying your right

to the work you do and the real distress,

If you feared then what people saw of you in light,
 

you would never again find yourself possessed 

to anything but an ugly story portray,

of the truth: Amarus et difficile est,

pro tui vivire.