This storm’s been following me since the beginning of my mind. I'm gonna tear the skin off my face. Everything, always pouring on my head. Riddled with riddles, I'm a muddled mess, living to wake up and dying to get some rest. I want to blow a hole in my chest, fill it with water and breathe it in. I can't stop anything with these fucking holes in my hands, everyday is fucking pouring rain on my head. And thunder struck behind my ears. The perfect sleep, the feeling of peace has far too long been eluding me. Let them see. Through the rain in sheets, and tell me that it’s not dismantling. It's Hindering. My objectivity. It’s hindering all I taste. I can't feel myself anymore, I lost myself in the fog. Hold this conversation as a glimpse into how to explain this. My knife your bone. I'll carve out a home. I'll wait restlessly. My anxiety becomes me. Sporadic decisions guide me. Deeper into the storm.
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