sometimes i feel like a gravedigger,
digging my own grave in preparation for the day
when i finally get to rest.
every day another shovelful of dirt,
every achievement an acquiescence to the idea
that there are minimum requirements for death.

before i can lay down, i have to dig my own grave.
i’m tired of digging, but it isn’t deep enough,
isn’t wide enough, the edges aren’t sharp enough
and the terrible vicious irony of it is
that i only tire because i’m digging.
if i could just lay my shovel down,
i wouldn’t need a grave at all.


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