you can cut to the bone with, all my angry obsessions, all these chalky happy pills, and all their consequences, am i done with sleeping? am i done with waking up? am i through with thinking? that i’ve taken to much into my apologies, and lucid dreams, and f-cked up thinking
i bleed inside, i fear my life, i wake and i hide, i choke till it soaks into all these anxious fits, and agoraphobic dreams of happiness
you can cut to the f-cking point, of how i’m so frustrated, as you strip away this fear, and you sand and paint it, am i done with drinking? am i done with waking up? am i tired of thinking? that i’ve taken to much into all i want to be, the ghost of me is far from leaving
i feel claustrophobic thinking, that my skin is a prison in itself, you want to share my cell?
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