Digging my Grave

Reads: 879  | Likes: 48  | Shelves: 1  | Comments: 0

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
I wrote this poem in October 2016 when I was going thru yet another heroin relapse. Just two months after I wrote this I used for the last time. This is my softly edited version I finally decided to share 2 years later. This describes a time much different from my life today. But it makes me cry every time I read it still; I never want to be there again. I've never been publicly open about my struggles. Thanks for allowing me to be vulnerable.

Submitted: September 30, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 30, 2018



I’m digging my grave, here once again
pulled out my shovel, same gloves and old friend.
The soil was softer, healthy and new
This time there were flowers
Ecosystems, too.

But my shovel didn’t care 
And neither did my gloves
Because despite all obvious enhancement
That’s what "my kind of person" does.

Filled with gloom and insensitivity 
My arms continue to hack away 
At all my old productivity

Once the grave had been dug 
Blood had been sweat
And time sufficiently hung
My ego
Had to stop and see what I had done

Amongst all apathetic intentions
I couldn’t help but look
at the pile on the ground of all the good that I had took

And despite my appetite for blindness
I couldn’t help but see
all of that goodness that used to be me

Hanging my head and closing the door
The worst part is always having been here before

How is it possible? How is it real?
Am I truly happy knowing the end is near?
So despite my programmed robotics 
and lack of desire
Something inside, deep, began to transpire

Making my last few permanent shovels
The Eye I can’t cry from started to level
began to show me my own unifying struggle
showed me all blisters, calluses and scars
The truth of my past, present, future- it’s hard.

Both together we can see and together we can know
That even on the sunniest of days there is snow
If I hide myself in my grave, seemingly safe and warm
there will be no hope, no love, no unknown
Only a series of roots
probably tickling my nose
in constant reminder of the roots I could have grown.

© Copyright 2019 Nicole Stewart. All rights reserved.

Add Your Comments: