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Apr 2019
I'm sick to my stomach with my own paranoia,
It tears away at my innards keeping me aware,
That my despair is ever present,
Ever vigilant.

I can never know for certain what can be certain,
Nothing feels like it's ever in place,
Whenever I think things begin to look up,
The terror of its demise sets upon,
Devouring all the light surrounding it.
Written by
Ian  23/M
(23/M)   
  293
   Fawn
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