If I was made from dust, then please let me return to it. There isn’t anything that keeps me here. The sun has already burnt my skin. The hours have chipped away at any sense of belonging. The dark room has swallowed any light that ever tried to enter. Nothing lasts here but heartache and loneliness. The cell I’ve been sentenced to has worn me out. The earth is familiar. It’s calming. To know that I’ll finally belong to something that will benefit from me. That I’ll be allowing things to have their best chance because this world slept on my worth. Night. Whether seen as good or bad. It strangles me. Then at the break of dawn releases its grip, promising that the torture will return again like clockwork. Morning. It sends me away with bruises and blisters forcing me to face another day of smiling, working, talking, walking, decision making, failing, and stumbling back to my straight jacket where I go through the whole process again. Night. Suffer. Survive. Morning. Suffer. Survive. Night. Torture. Survive. Morning. Faking. Survive. Night. Strangling. Gasping. Fumbling. Torture. Stabbing. Release. Sweet, Sweet Release. Blackness. Casket. Buried. Purpose. If I was made from dust, then please let me return to it. There isn’t anything that keeps me here. The sun has already burnt my skin. The hours have chipped away at any sense of belonging. But now, as I’m deep within what I’m made from, time doesn’t chip away. The sun doesn’t burn me anymore. Belonging and purpose is found. Evidence? A new sprouting that will cover the earth above. And each new sapling will be a symbol of another life taken. Utter freedom. See all the plants? They were saplings once. Which means? Yes! Release. Sweet, Sweet Release. Bye.