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Is this real:
This loss of sleep;
This loss of thought and loss of eat?

Dry is the mouth.
Yet jaw still tight.
Weak are the knees and blurred is my sight.

The push and pull:
An internal rage,
But no more than a drop can escape to this page.

Akin to a contest:
Alas unprepared. . .
Though the nerves should be lessened if the feeling was shared.

Dissimilar though:
No opponent to best,
And only an apple to place in my chest!





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