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Secrets of Empty Walls.


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So I'm here and I'm broken.
So I'm all by myself.
So I'm out of words to be spoken.
So I'm not in good health.
So my life is a big mess.
So I'm always in distress.
So I'm out of my mind, I must say I'm blessed.

So I hate these four walls;
the same same walls for the past nine years,
that have been my only companions
staring at me with their blank faces,
their empty compassion, and
their soulless remarks
of how useless one has become.
Showing no trophies, awards, or certificates hung on the wall.
No pictures with friends
showing a wonderful time,
with hilarious inside jokes
of a memorable night.
No concert posters.
No paintings.
Just.
Pure.
Blank.

The air musts with the stench of death.
Not a single decaying rotted corpse to be seen.
But the death of a soul,
a character,
a person,
is quite obvious and in plain sight.

If walls could speak,
then mine would surely be bi-polar.
Speaking of great joys when gathered with a companion,
then revealing a great darkness that many would cringe
when faced alone and dark thoughts dwell.


So my mind is unwell
and I'm still in this fight.
If I will ever make it through this alive and alright,
it's simply, quite really, too early to tell.



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