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Nov 2016
Take me back to the time
when the only concerns of mine
were cartoons and coloring pens.
When I was not stuck behind this fence,
trying to escape to a better place,
trying to avoid the problems I face.
Where the lights are darker;
the nights are longer;
and the sorrow is lighter.
Where the pain is fading,
and the scars are healing.
Where I can finally breathe, again.
Where I'm not at a dead end.
Where I can look in the mirror
and see beyond the bruised up picture.
Where there is no reflection,
no sight of agonizing perplexions,
no sight of a face that is painted black.
Borrowed but never given back,
this heart is not mine.
Those eyes are not mine.
I see the present but am stuck in the past.
I get drunk on the toxins racing just as fast
as the memories holding me back in chains.
I get high on the thoughts smoked up in my brain.
I struggle to stay alive outside of myself.
This body has become a prison by itself.
Living inside the walls of this cell
has made my vision too foggy,
my hands too ******,
my will too sloppy,
my days too rocky,
my mind too cloudy;
to act sane,
to try and maintain,
the fake play staged for the fools
who will laugh and point fingers at you
as soon as you leave the room.
You are a freak show;
at you, money they throw;
betting how much more you'll last
until all things holding you together collapse,
until you become a forgotten story of the past.
Yara Mrad
Written by
Yara Mrad  Lebanon
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