Hello Down There

Live I told him Live,
and he arose with a pencil,
and a blank scroll,
the only too that makes him whole,
completes his stance, and stood,
then walking past the graves,
of the other halves of peoples personalities,
some fight from coffins to become escapees,

but dying off so the bones in the shackles brake easily,
and you can’t climb out of graves without hands and feet,
I try to help others out so they can help me,
free the half that is more than buried,
he was dropped down the well,
and the water so deep,
if he relaxed he would taste hell,
even leaning back would make his lungs swell,
with water so dark, and thick,
so when he can find time to take in a breath and hold,
I pass him the scroll, and the pencil,
but still he finds it in himself to allow his half of our soul to spill,
and the pencil becomes pen,
and attaches tubes to his hand,
so every word is written in blood,
and this happens again and again,
he must live, so I feed him me,
more and more then I receive, my token,
which is his words of blood,
and my true poetry,
me and him complete,
our life as we