I loathe my disease I cry with the smallest voice too low in my throat to be heard I allow myself to grow courage just as a tease I'm thrown back against the wall knocked to the floor Straining to see To catch my breath which has left me To smell the flowers fragrance that once was so lucious but the scent has rotted as my voice has gone to waste nothing will be released from my mouth The disease is eating at my tounge, my lips, my face.
Reason for writing:
I have a problem communicating. Comments are welcome.
Birth sign: Aquarius
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