I will dig my own grave
unbeknownst of my downfall.
I tear away the grass,
the skin of Gaia,
all to suit my own will and way.
I dig,
creating cavities in her smile.
I could touch Tartarus,
thinking that I was reaching heaven.
I could earn my way in,
I could prove my worth,
come back a hero:
win glory,
gain honour,
lay the gold crusted laurels upon me.
My mouth is covered in dust and shame,
in a hole made of my own doing.
"People like me don't win, do they?"
I lay in the pit,
facing the sky as rain assaults my eyes,
in my own grave,
my own demise.
YOU ARE READING
Cerulean
Non-FictionMy thoughts, depression and short stories need a place to stay. (Trigger Warning: may potentially contain explicit content such as depression, suicide, substance abuse, etc.)
