Anxiety ridden, always waiting -
Tuned to the one hundredth degree;
Lost in the ugly dreaded moment,
Knowing what never can be.
This thing has its nasty hold -
Carrying you without consciousness,
Breaking every emotion within;
Taking you away to its nothingness.
So not a thing that can just be observed -
Caught in the rigid emotional trap;
Knowing you are the only one with keys -
Only you can draw this map.
This thing which you think you so love -
This thing for which you have no control;
Steals you away beneath the grime,
Ripping apart what is left of your soul.
1 comment:
That it does, excellent verse.
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