My mind is much.
I don't know how to fix it;
I don't know how to fix
me. Isn't it me that needs fixing?
Don't I know? Or should
I spend hours inside the
poison that captivates my activity for ways to
conclude the broken links in
I'm afraid for my
life. I'm scared of the night. I cannot be left alone
because I will surely retreat
to the prison of my mind. I'm in life's grave and the dirt
I'm consistently at
war with myself, it's a battle I cannot win.
I am guilty of feeling sorry for myself
for I truly believe that the war I am
at every waking
moment of my life is far more
devestating than any war fought across the seas
of pollution. Forgive me, if you know me, for what I am is
s i n .
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