It’s difficult to get out sometimes.
Like clawing at the walls of a well.
Fighting because you’re up there and I’m down here.
And even though you throw me many ropes,
they’re all covered in shit and slime.
My hands clench tightly, fingers ooze with stank
only to slide back down.
I stew in a bed of roses for a while,
picking at the petals one by one.
Then we’re back at it, ropes covered in roses, shit and slime.
I sort of use the slack from the rope to heave myself,
slowly from slime covered stone to stone,
eventually making my way out.
Only to find you sleeping next to a tree.
The rope tied tight around it’s base.
And I watch your eyes dance under your eyelids.
I’m in awe of your use of knots,
your ability to sleep so sound.
So I sit a while, next to you, and it’s peaceful there.
We’ve all got our own way of getting out.