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Oct 2012
These days drag on
while I drag on my finely
rolled cigarette of relief
But the relief is only a hazy
mask, fading with every lash
that falls on my cheek
My hair is too weak and
unkempt, for days spent
inside enduring darkness
take a toll on one's
mentality and physicality

I am a shell of who I used to be
Lips stuck together, crooked spine,
fingers jammed from carpel tunnel
Apathetic eyes grow weary from the
vast toxins that reside behind them
seeping through like an absorbent napkin
and rung out with listlessness

These days drag on and on
I hear the same songs
and make the same motions
I miss the fresh air and
the sound of the ocean
I almost miss the faint
smell of burts bees on
your lips--I'm sick with
nostalgia and dying for the future,
hating the present, wishing these
days would drag to an end
Roberta Day
Written by
Roberta Day  28/F/Austin, Tx
(28/F/Austin, Tx)   
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