Somethings

I think to keep going is the task of the undismayed. And to grow is that of the most fortunate.
How to still sing when the chest is clogged with longing for my small god. I left him there, hanging on a song, and never came back to place him on the tip of my tongue - god like a small white pill of hope. 

Perhaps I am most unfortunate for I crown myself with just enough importance to think I matter; I do not, not even in the eyes of this unfair world. I matter less than the ant in its dark world. A lack of home is now a familiar trait, and my demons follow with clarity. 

I swallow my tears; they are my measured medicine. This is the last hour of loneliness, for I decide to make myself no more an enemy, but a friend. 


Wish me luck.

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