| It’s all so subtle, still so subtle, the way that storm clouds gather around me
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| At first sight, the sun still mutters, so softly mutters through the screen
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| doors
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| Now the hour of growth and death is upon my spoiled
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| And rotting body beset by electric shocks rattling through my nerves
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| Muscles that sit as weak as falling rain
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| And my joints they’re snagged by snares
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| And snap back like rubber bands and rolling tide
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| Today I don’t feel like doing much except
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| Sit inside maybe waste my time
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| Unsure of where I’m going
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| Or if the direction even matters
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| I feel the beginning tingling of weight on my chest
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| The prelude to smothering anxiety to cut through the boredom
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| But there’s work to be done so much work to be done
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| I can’t move
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| I can’t even sit up in my bed anymore
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| Every day I have visions of myself dying the next
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| A collapsing old man
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| An impatient future that’s beckoning me
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| Towards wheelchairs and hospital beds
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| Twenty-one and always aching
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| I still don’t know what’s wrong with me
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| Weakening, staggering, trembling
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| I can’t expect you to understand |