The Bottom, The End


Scrubbing and wiping

each and every day.

To wash away the

shame of the never ending past.

Layer after layer,

scraped away.

But the bottom, the end,

is never seen


Graffiti of your lies

covering the walls.

Dust of disobedience

coats the furniture.

Spraying here, polishing there,

never completely clean.

There’s the never ending hope

of having a new slate.


Feeling the stained carpets

haunts you of dishonesty.

The taste of pride

a bitter flavor never leaving.

Vacuuming the dirt

of lost respect.

Picking up the pieces

of failure.

Disgrace rings in ears

breaking the silence of being alone.

Sweeping away the dirt

of rejection under the rug.

Everything staying always hovering

over a once unsmudged conscience.

The optimism of a new start

whisked away.


Scrubbing, wiping,

washing, scraping,

spraying, polishing,

vacuuming, picking,

sweeping, whisking

stinks up all aspects of life.

But the bottom, the end,

is never seen.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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