It’s like the sand that sank your stomach and the strings that pulled out your back bone.

It’s the strides in your skin that remain until the wrinkles take their place.

It’s the hurt from the lesser hoped and the dry out of the biggest dope.

It’s the undone being finalized and rung out traded with the vaporized.

It’s the iron stones being stepped on and crushed until ordered into a thin line.

It’s the only thing you’d promise to never leg go, until that is which you do.

And what you don’t get done, which is simply right, is done to you.

And that’s when you feel bad.

When your hurt is sold to you soul,

And the broken pieces embed the air you breathe.

When the water is so cold that all it offers is a screech to your teeth.

When your steps feel like they’re getting deeper till you’re walking on your knees.

When the words you whisper to yourself become confused and drowned in their redundant abuse.

When your search your chest chasing your scattered heart beat.

When all your promises become convinced of entire defeat.

And that’s given up.