Writing

A sort of disease, this lack of expression

I would live all my life in nonchalance
Because I am terrified of what you would think
If you saw me stripped of this porcelain shell
I am a prisoner to my own indifference
But breaking free would be my cancer, my hell
Stay with me; I hope you’ll stay
It is only because I am scared
Look deeper; you will find
From behind the curtain
I’m dreaming in red
Help me, dear.

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