Out Of The Mire

Journey back from the gap of distress.

Down in a hole.
I’ve lost control.
All in my head.
Tired and slow but all I want to do is get up and go.
Less than myself.
All here yet gone.
The blackness reflecting my face underneath all the masks.
Piercing every thought.
Stomping every try.
Slipping, slipping, slipping deeper inside.
Run in a corner but there’s nowhere to hide.

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Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.

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