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Poem about depression


sane, insane

She keeps wondering if she's still sane,
if the blood running through her veins is real.
If this blanket of flesh is hers to keep,
will she ever eventually be let go free?

When the air closes in, the panic sets in.
Her entire being is compromised.
She can't move. She can't speak. She can't even swallow,
though inside continues to relentlessly shriek.

No sunlight shines,
a black manifestation consumes her mind.
At once the flowers blossomed from her roots,
now her bones are rotting, and she too.

This is an interesting poem, but I didn't really get any feeling of insanity out of it. Perhaps it would be better to experiment using sentence fragments. I do enjoy the flow, though.

Hey ChesterBlard, no one gives a crap. Go play with yourself. Damn, I miss our mods.


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