The ‘pit o’ me
of existing
is caring.

I don’t mean than in a sappy way or anything sentimental
more about the fundamental
and the mental, in general,
just all hammered into our skulls like dents in metal
where the creases appear, even on a skeletal level,
like smiles and frowns, some harsh some gentle.

God damnit. Every action you take
and every little mistake you make
reflects on what you care about, what you hold at stake
burning above the fire in your eyes, molten lava lakes,
despair! God spare us, we say, our prayers fake.

Bestow upon us the mighty sword of wit;
we will rub the handle until the twine is lit,
friction and heat, desperation, moving through the grit
of scars. Scars scars scars, from where our own minds bit
just a tad too hard, toxin and love in our spit,
when we pray when we love
hoping that the sky tumbles with a single dove,
some day we will be free, and peel off our latex glove
from our singular hand— a limb that can shove
you high off your pedestal, you ruler of
it all, spare us, and learn to unlove, to instead behove
your throne when you deem it right.
It could be in the night, with the light
from the moon that can’t shine its white
into our minds. Our room. Where we care and take flight
into fantasies that only we can rightly write.

This was never about the sentimental.
In general, I feel like I’m going mental;
every day I wake, neurons elemental,
basic and rudimentary and just so fundemental.

This will never be about the sentimental.
In a way it will be incidental
but in a way it will be so monumental
the way we will become judgemental
of the eventful, accidental, and experimental
that we like to call care.
Caring, staring, scaring, scared, scare
us away, hiss, and claw, and dare
us to come close to you, with your glare
and the bright flair you wear
sitting upon you chair that you beg as a throne.

The ‘pit o’ me
of existing
is caring.