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Aug 2017
The sound is uncontrollable,
it bangs, it knocks, the side of my head,
it rolls and rocks, my face turns red,
with anger, I burst, it burns.

The door was closed, I cursed,
isolated yet easily approached,
it searches me, I feel hunted,
I feel poached.

I yell, I scream, it's all the same,
from inside, it's different,
it's not getting anywhere, I hurt,
my cries were never heard.

I wash away the dirt, build up
after days of focus, my dreams, they mention
attending a funeral for my attention.
It's a working title.
Daan
Written by
Daan  Belgium
(Belgium)   
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