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Dead look
Cold glance
"What did I do wrong this time"
You think at their dead trance.
does one truly not notice
the creeping due date of their corpses
is each birthday
really a year closer to life being hopeless
I was gone,
now I am here
did anyone notice
or am I not truly here
Suffering in silence, lacking compliance as I sit and wonder if I am going to be the father of a daughter or a little boy. If I will be able to watch my babies growth. With my luck, probably no. I have reached the end of my fall down the emotional stair case. "Am I falling into a distorted thinking trap", *Fallen into one already, I am trapped in my mind. Stuck inside a crushing hole, a deep grave in which I dug on my own. I stand on the outside of my mind, grieving at the grave of my lost mental state. Popping pills to stop my pent up paranoia, pulling out a pill bottle contemplating going ghost.

But no, I paint a smile across my face to push away any suspicion of my depression. Compressing the feeling of my contemplation torwards re-constructing my mental stability, but no. I cannot stabilize or regulate my self-hate, so instead I write it down knowing that nobody here knows who I am, just what I write.

*******... See nobody warns you, love is an addicting drug. Love is an addicting plug, Love causes more people a day to decide to pull the plug on their life. They choose to lie, they choose to die and commit suicide. But really, not me. I cannot loose what is mine. I cannot leave my siblings behind anymore, I will not end my life for just any *****.
My thoughts written.
"Brother, Sister, Mother, Lover." says a nurse trying to make me remember.
Brother stands more silent than the dark winter night.
Sister sits sniffling with tears in her eyes.
Mother looks paler than deaths cold touch.
Lover holds my hand spreading no feeling past her touch.
"Cold, Warm, Wet, Dry." once again, a nurse so calm states in a calm monotone.
Cold? Is that the feeling of the summer breeze upon my skin? I do not know.
Warm?.....warm? I...Cannot remember....Need to...close my eyes.
"Carson, Carson, Carson, Carson...."
What is a carson?
Why does a carson do?
Memory from a shattered soul
The Mind of a writer depends on the thinker.
I think not as you do, you think not as they do.
We think not as they do.
They think not like them do.
Do we have a purpose?
Sometimes the biggest impacts in life
Lie in the easiest decisions
It is the easiest decisions that change the course of life
It is the small ones that make you who you are
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