June 9, 2011
The quiet typing of the keys
fills the room with such disease.
Because these letters can't
make up the words
for the ways I feel,
because there are none.
Typing becomes such a tease
when you write and write
and accomplish nothing.
It's like running through a tunnel
towards the light at the end,
but never getting closer,
only farther away.
And when you're worn down; exhausted,
you begin to wonder if
the light at the end
is worth all the distress.
Or if it would just be better
to take your last step.

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