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My hands are white from clenching my fists.
Two years I've spent wasing away on this.
Struggling between fact and fiction,
Losing who you are within this friction.
This cycle of disarray never ends.
Torn inside and out; I constantly bend.
Spinning and falling;
Spinning and falling.
Why is comfort found in self destruction?
Don't you realize you are only an obstruction?
While the night falls whispering


"Tomorrow is a new day,"
When morning comes you never change your ways.





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