To fight the war; to want to die
to not belong, to be a lost soldier.
WAndering from place to place; never complete.
To know my home. My station in life.
I am broken pieces strewn on the floor
without anyone to put them back together again.
I’m lost. A stranger in paradise with the world at my fingertips.
As I grasp for the world, it slips through.
The more I grasp, the more I spiral
out of control; into oblivion
And I’m okay with that.
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