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Claustraphobic.

I'm happy
-- but I think unhappy thoughts.
It's constant
Wishful
Thinking
Pushing me behind.
Melodramatic instances,
Riddled with normalcy
Combined with romanticizing
Reality into Shakespeare's time.
And again I draw the line
Between the truth
And what I perceive to be true.
I only yearn to wake to hope
-- but when hope is all but drained
(And drained it fails to stir)
What stirs this hope alive
Is but a task I have yet to learn.
In passion I seek passion,
Limitless me amongst the world.
In this world I believe
Is a place too cold for me.

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