You are green.
Like my sorry.
I fill your buckets with ideas of promises,
but my worry breaks the illusion of the possibilities.

I am ocd.

I fear the worlds gift of breath and excitement.
I wont face the end of the tale.
I wish I were dreaming but its too hard to make it
just another thought in the back of my head.

My blood, scars and becomes infected
and wounds are left with no protection.

I want to heal.
But I am stuck behind a glass.
I am too far back.
Just go on without me.
I'll surrender eventually.

And I will be green like you,
too.