I made a life for myself in the destructive, |
lustful, lives of the dirt,
And as each piece of the filth found
that I was dirtier than them,
I''d roll in a new pile of mud.
I toy with the shame and let it play me,
now that I''m clean and alive.
Without the dirt there''s a simple emptiness,
A new life afraid to emerge.
A sick mind has become disabling.
All bridges to safety are burned
by frigid guilt and shame.
Without the dirt I still destroy myself
and anyone who could keep me sane.
The filth that turned me into mud,
messy and full of disease,
Has attached itself to everything I love
and taken it away from me.
It fills my lungs,
I choke and gag and stumble uncertainly.
The dirt makes me sick,
but pouring water into those lungs
is a deadly way to try and get clean....