I feel it building, always trying to break out. Everything seems too tame. I feel alone and raw. Don't rest! Not even for a minute; or face living under scorn. So,I curl under the broken shelf of confusion, struggling with the inner girl.
Is there a tunnel to freedom? Is it all just self-inflicted pollution? Will it really end in the cold binding shackles of conformed lies? Wishing for moments of contentment, free from the constant anxiety. Sustained happiness is a fairy tale, but moments would give life a chance.
I feel that time. When I crawled, fumbling on my hands and knees, bleeding--trapped by painful, crushing gasps of air--knowing that any last glimmers of hope for the future were dead, cold--gone.
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