change
Pain and anger against myself, cold steel upon my skin, warm fluid running down my arm, jumping away from me, my fingertips as trampolins.For not letting myself be what I want to be and not having the tools for becoming the person I want, I hate myself, im a prisoner in my own shell.
I am an observer of societys insanity and madness, a sober person in a party where everyone behaves like idiots.
Im looking at the exit, the exit is a dark hole six feet deep.
Options, becoming an idiot? How can I allow myself becoming something I despise? How can I go on not to?
Poetry by Patrik Lind
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Written on 2006-10-12 at 00:49
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by Patrik LindLatest textsstrong/weakthousand miles My decisions! You the key |
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