day in, day out

Echoes in an empty passion
re-visiting old symptoms
seeking comfort from the
bear trap of responsibility
(and NO! I don't want to talk about it)
You cant participate in this life
without getting elbow-deep
And when some things stick to you
they bed down, in the skin
they get in your blood and
corrupt your insides
Sometimes you dig so far down
you can't see the sky
Knee-deep in the sewer of days
like you're window shopping for
your own grave site
And the cycle spins still
like an idiot running from insanity
Some comforts cost too much
And in the long run, none of this
will ever yield gold
Only the stone floor of
sober living would
offer some new eager survival
something besides this glaringly
illogical crutch
that's just a cheap knock-off of passion
nothing but thoughts bouncing off walls
in an empty room