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i am barely breathing
   tell me this is not my destination
   i just want to ask you something—

is this where i truly belong?
  i am trying! oh god, yes, i am!
  when did it all go wrong?

all the lies i fed myself—it is becoming real
   i have always known it
   i was never meant to heal
no such thing as a crybaby im doing fine guys
There is a word
There is a feeling
There is a seed
That is growing
Never allowed to grow
Beyond ornamental,
Small perfect leaves
On small well pruned branches;
To please the eye
Of miniature torturers.


Cramped in a micro life,
Roots restrained
Within un-natural boundaries.
The promise of a tree
Never really fulfilled,
Beyond a whisper.


Fussed over relentlessly,
Like an O.C.D.
Perfect shape and form,
Trained from natural beauty,
To sit on a shelf
Hidden from reality.
To say that the metaphysical mystique of the human race
is an imaginary condition is a gross denial of evolutional
principle .  What then is the nature of problematic prosthesis,
the personification of sartorial perfection , or the picturesque
visage of spectral grace ?
Impertinence important, inadvertency inaplicable, initiate innate interpreters intervene intricacy.  Inane inerte, inertia innate: carousel ceaselessly ceremony chaos character chrisma, harpy harsh hast severities, emanate imminent perdition asperities.  Down here at the bizarre bazaar we all believe in the blasphemous farcical fugueness, estranged ensemble orchestrations and all.  We are even into the various assorted forms of related stranger weirdness.  Similar states of analogous contusion and ancillary subordinateness.
I don’t want to be a princess.
I prefer to be a wall
or a shoulder
that some one can lean on
I don’t want to be spoiled
I want to
fight
Get dirt on my clothes
Clean them
search more
fail more
know more
see everything
Try everything
I want to share the road
With some one
Running not carried
I want to look behind
And see MY footprints.
I want to be free
Don't worry mum.
I'm worse than you think
But no way near as bad as you fear.
A world slowly woke from slumber
Stumbled through a sense of Deja Vu.
Free from sheets of sleep and dreams,
Borrowed stitches pay the seams
Of patchwork quilted promises,
Forgotten threads of make believe.
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