"Can't you see it in my eyes?
My blank stare?
I'm dying.
The grief is rotting me out,
from the inside.
like fungus,
like a flesh eating virus,
that travels from ear to ear.
As this grief has it's meal,
and it's vector watches,
as if its entertainment,
I lose my grip on life.
For the reason I keep holding on,
gets ever more vague,
every,
fucking,
day.
And when I die,
on the side of the road,
like a dog,
hit by a truck called life,
and it's drunk driver,
fate,
I'll swell up with maggots,
and burst." - HartForde
