They say “write what you know”
And I, “not a thing”
Monuments to the bottom
Know you saw them
Know it’s raw zen
Rock, bottom out
When given the choice
A diamond is a rock, too
The literal Atlas
Butterflies of slugs
Tired atoms pull out rugs
Coal without a fuck to give
Moving up and off the dirt
Onto greedy fingers
On glad hands
These man-lands
Are dead lands
Stick up, stuck on
Move paralysed pawns
Who can’t see their feet
Who can’t change the hate
No will, no love
Money never fails to consummate
e.y.
(Source: plathological)
