In the conversations of the dead,

There are truths laid bare in the words they can’t express,

The ones that slip the mind when they focus on distress,

Of the lives lost early in a sea of regret,

Remembering the words they never got to say,

To the ones that they loved that they let slip away,

Not telling them that they were the light that brightened our day,

As they stand by their casket and stare,...

I bite the hand that feeds me, so that maybe it’ll let me starve,

From the hate and abuse that scar the walls of my heart,

My spirit is shattered into a thousand pieces ripped apart,

Like the land after Mother Nature’s beautifully demonstrated disastrous work of divine art,

The hand that feeds plants the ego’s seeds,

That burrow and fester as it comes to life, it breathes,

Second by second is tell...