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Confessing

I'm aching
because, I confess,
I don't know where I'm going.

My world turns
but no person moves,
and no changes arise.

It's steady,
never ending.

A written passage,
I suppose,
time dragging so slow.

I'm waiting
endlessly waiting,

I confess,
I wonder when
my world will
start turning again?

    I plan to revise this poem: please leave constructive criticism!
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