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Foogle
Poems
May 11
Anxiety
it comes when there is no time to write
and you're inches away from spilling your
sanity out on a sidewalk in the park
elevating to the moon you whisper
quiet nothings into your own bare shoulders
it comes when there's no time to think
and when the skies begin to look interchangeable
greys upon greys and sunset knitted together
and the cold dawns upon uncovered skin
it comes when there is no time to breathe
Written by
Foogle
15
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