You Dig

My after midnight therapy... I've come to own by inheritance this fertile plot of land the things it grows, I don't understand. I dig and dig but never gain the root of what it is. I've come to believe my occupation dirty's me. I mean, I can't save him, while burying me. My hat goes off to people taking on people-problems while remaining drama free. Guess that's why they're professionals and we pay them to farm places off limits to the masses. They deal with people's fallen state and manage to say "Hi honey, I'm home" and so far from monotone Amazing, the water that sits in their compassion tub is effervescent. As for me, I don't seem to bathe that cleanly Dirt becomes the substance I'm known by I sprout leaves of discontent Some therapist pulls on it and says, "There, that's it" while leaving the harvest underground. Don't ask me what my problem is while standing there watching me dig. I'm trying to save someone buried. So I keep digging, but lately I've been thinking, I'm the one who needs saving. My after midnight therapy writing, shoveling, to the depths I go. Farm it, and it will grow.