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Imagination Station

Cernuous shutters, weather beaten, peeling paint,
Marred by existence, no money for upkeep.
Walk on by . . .

Depression ensues

. . . How can this be?
So much care, everything perfectly prepared,
More waste.

Depression perverts.

Irrelevant costume, monotonous routine, trapped in the wrapping of what is,
and what is not.

Shameful game, freedom of my brain, always choosing pain, knowing it is done,
Refusing to give in . . . to let go . . .

Accepting what is has never been for me;
The possibility of what could be,
Now thatís the life for me!





saraeaton
Written by saraeaton
Published
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