This room is illuminated
By despair
My fingers blind across
The page
This pencil being an invader
Invading my old home;
My old being.
Stress and depression bleeding from every
Pore; I don't know why.
That's not true, not entirely.
Life, life
Is my stressor.
Real life is my enemy.
So I run
Run with pills and
Booze and songs
And words.
Floating across my eyes
As if in a dream;
A spectral fantasm of
A long loved and
Forgotten time.
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