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'm so angry.
I spend hours inside the poison that captivates my activity for ways to conclude the
broken links in me.
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 is red.
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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