Endless Sundays
The day of work
You know I'm hurt, the scars weep a story, and my pearly eyes hide my soul
But, no matter
I'm workin'
It doesn't matter than I'm hurting

-

These rhymes
try and hide
The truth everyone doesn't speak
'cuz they think its their fault for feelin' this way
so they tell stories with scars
and hide away in bars
the beer makes the mind numb
and makes the scars look like stories of triumph
"I can't feel sad,
If the beer makes me glad."
Then, inevitably
you come down
and you're sad
The pressure you hid from yourself with the toxic, bitter drink
pushes on your skull with ten times the force
And you experience all the recourse of your actions
so you intoxicate yourself with shit, again
to repeat the cycle again, and again
'cuz your soul has a plan
your mind just doesn't give a damn
It wants to hide away in the dark
Let the storms grow
You can just drown it away
But, hey!
At least you have a place to lay, and suffer.

Biography: Well. Hi. I’m Dez, and I write crappy poems. My view on poems are the same as almost anything in life: be honest and sloppy. Because of this, a lot of my poems are about my emotions, including “Nobody,” and “Self Deprecating Title #27.,” but if you are reading this, you’re probably only gonna read one, “Nobody.” This poem is about whatever the hell you interpret it as, but this is originally written simply to be about my own loneliness while everyone is around. That’s why I used the grim reaper as the symbol; he’s around thousands (Albeit, dead) people everyday, and everyone is scared of him. What a miserable existence. 

The “fear” shows up in my life as simply not sharing many interests with people at ECA. I ain’t all that smart, either; I just work relatively hard. 

Art is meant to give the reader, viewer, or whatever else, their own understanding of a piece that resonates with them.