Dig
Why do I find myself digging?
Just when everything seems as it should be, a shovel finds its way into my hand and then I am digging.
Before I can stop, I am flinging dirt.
And each time the piles of junk become higher.
I turn them over in my hands and read the memories that are written.
They are glistening in the moonlight and it hurts my eyes.
They water as I remember the empty spaces and wish that they were mine.
Why, why, why do I dig?
Just when everything seems as it should be, a shovel finds its way into my hand and then I am digging.
Before I can stop, I am flinging dirt.
And each time the piles of junk become higher.
I turn them over in my hands and read the memories that are written.
They are glistening in the moonlight and it hurts my eyes.
They water as I remember the empty spaces and wish that they were mine.
Why, why, why do I dig?