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Empath
02:56
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I've questioned reality so many times. I live in a state of emotional squalor. I plead with myself in a room of decay, reciting the words that are all too familiar. I'm stuck in a place of dysphoric decline. Continually pacing a path that's grown over. These weeds hit my shins with a force so pristine it's as if they've never been pushed down before. Change, the kind that's shaped my mind, and tears at my brain. A bad influence at a crucial point of development or is it just innate. Accepting death might be the only certainty. These thoughts find a way out, they leave marks on my skin. I'm so medicated I can't cry I've made friends with shame of which defines my own conception of existing recollections sought.
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Carefully placing each thought in a corner of mind where I know that it won't be a problem, and taking all the time I need to piece together some kind of normalcy. I begging for reprieve in a world that is nothing but in between lies. Why is there ability when there is nothing to gain? Why can't I die? Sensations of pain, the torment of pleasure. They're so far away yet so close together. Idyllic variety stems from society's willingness to shape and mold my reality. Cut, healed, and reopened. Scarred beyond repair, and I'm so scared that I've been turning my back on myself to soften the blow.
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