The walls in this home
Snicker behind
The tasteful paper that binds them
As I drag my comb
Through my dark limber curls
I know it's my lonesome that minds them

If I allow myself to sit
The more aggressive they will get
So when time allows me leisure
I prefer to run in place
For my intolerance to existence
All you are is an aid
I despise every inch
Of your sturdy foundation
I hear the crackle of the steps
But none come my direction
I don't have the patience
For heavy groundation

To lift the weight of my conscience
Or relieve the tension in my soul
The road to recovery
Ask too much a toll
So I pay my fare
With my freshly combed hair
Making disheveled imprints
On the silky surface of my pillow

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