This is what he said to me.

                                                 Waking up in your coffin.

Screaming and scraping.                             -

The felt covered insides underneath your nails.

                             "No air for you now.     -

                                                        No air little boy."

                                         "Sick little child living to die "

                                                                   -

                                        "Feeling faceless yet?!"

                     Swearing to end it all at one point.

                                      Living to die eventually.

Deep black.                                                  -

                 "Deep black with nobody to hear you little boy."

                                                                    -         No light.

                     Blood in my mouth and teeth scraping the wood.

                                                     "Scared yet?!"

       Frozen by death now.

                                             Every regret held at my throat by time.

Covered by seven feet of dirt and seventeen years of pain.

Can't move.

Can't breathe.

                          Can't shout...

NO more screaming and_

                                                           scraping........

You_

                 can't.

                                      "Feeling claustro-

                                                                  phobic yet?!"

                                                          "Feeling phobic yet?"

The day you were born was the day you were sentenced to death.

                   Your parents dug your grave.

                                             Born to find meaning, then lose it all one day.

Born writing your durge.

                                                                                               Born shaping your ebony crypt.

Feeling Nothing yet?

"Welcome home little boy"