Why do I care?

Why torture Myself with an inverted stare?

Is plunging into insanity really worth a glimpse at the depths of my mind?

Should I consume

My life with constantly stepping

Over chards

And scraps

And bits of glass?

Can I really be the tie that binds?

Is my attempt in futility;

A practice which can never achieve fluidity?

Only frustration fills all voids that I willfully tread.

But if life is anticipation of dread

Than that is not life,

And I am the living dead.

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