I live the perdicament of my previous addiction.
It drains my compassion, to try to
heal so quickly.
My mind has endeavored (victoriously)
to beguile me away (with every trivial tediation) from the dissonance of what I should be doing...
I wake up every solemn morning with my lungs full of a laboureous air.
Anxiety is a constant threat to inner solidity.
What ailment is this?
That keeps persistently breaking down my humanity with a sneer.
(I do it to myself.)
Why do I write the things I do?
The salubrious ambience I've grown to love is slowly receding back into fastidious reality, and I'm slipping...
slipping..
slipping.
I'm teething on the ephemeral lore of the civil war in my mind.
©an_odd_who
A