I sit in my room, and stare at the wallpaper
feels like a tomb, as I'm impaired by all vapors
which are noxious, causing my breath to taper
off as my view is fixed, to the wall's design
the pattern is flipped, down symmetrical lines
this only keeps my eyes, busy as I lose my mind
lies to myself make me dizzy, but I've tried
to restore my pure, now psychotic process
I need to feel secure, by putting the past to rest
all of the trials and hard-ships make up the events
as I regard clips of memory as just segments
these glimpses clog my brain's usual song
I'm appalled by the strong, my bawling seems lifelong
the soft melody that fills the emptiness of feelings
grows progressively muffled under ceiling's appearing
to the point where the only sound that I am hearing
are those that are slowly nearing and interfering
Wicked - Little Heather
Issue - Tearstained Pages
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