How dark is it in your coffin of despair?

In the deep hole that you dug even deeper?

You brought a shovel to your pity party,

then sealed your tomb shut with nails made of thin air.

I bet its quite disorienting, isn’t it?

You wallow in your corner of filth, mud, and muck,

but complain about the wetness of morning dew, with an interminable shiver.

Your body convulses. A self-induced seizure.

You knee-Jerk; Clawing at the crumbling edges of your infinite pit of shame,

expecting the roots to grab hold of you and drag you out;

A welfare state of mind. You lazy fuck,

You fail to realize that you are merely five feet under, and refuse to stand tall to see it.

If only you did, you would observe the sunrise from the east again,

you would feel the fresh air, smell the flowers, and listen to the trees dance in the wind.

You could climb out of your own free will, and have a picnic on the cemetery lawn.

Only then would you notice that my hole is already filled and mowed over.

The complexity of death can be made simple—you die.

To speculate otherwise is a waste of time,

as the truth will be revealed when your consciousness transforms.

Whatever the hell that means.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Love shouldn't hurt, except when it’s lost forever,

and the pain you feel should make you smile when you remember.

If it’s not that kind of love, then it’s just not—love.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Wherever you go, let your feet leave lasting imprints,

not to be washed away by tomorrow’s tide.

Turn every object you touch into something special,

not just another trinket from the five and dime.

And plant the seeds of inspiration,

into every mind, you happen to meet.

Sign your name BOLDLY,

make it monstrous,

scribble it off the edges of the page,

and always use permanent ink.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill