Poetry (words)


It ended as it always would. Without protest or a will to continue. What couldn’t be changed still the core of all doubt. Not a desolate place, but empty of warmth. A door closed….and an echo of its closing the only recollection.

It’s not enough. It’s the scraps being thrown to the grateful beast, barely alive, but kept close at hand by hunger alone. Survival and starvation at odds, motivational extremes. I can’t survive this, I can’t stay intact and remain in this bubble.


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