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Tiny Window.

A small chance,

A tiny ivy grown window.

A message, drawn by finger in dusty glass.

"You think too much!"

From who's hand can I recoil?

Observe the simple truth,

Since birth these nettles have tangled in my mind.

Stinging my ears as they begin to peek through.

I can clearly see them climb,

Wrap their suffocating stems around my freckled face.

These absent thoughts,

Petals formed from pointless woes.

I hear the buds cry and unwillingly scream.

I was the one who let the damaging light in,

Used my soil painted fingertips to nurture these venomous vines.

Poisoning my present.

I have stolen my own time,

Caught in a curse of a never dulling daydream.

Today I trim the dead.

Cleanse the worn,

Rip away the dull doubt.

Allow this mind to fall to the forest floor.

Letting each leaf in pieces,

Fly away with the notion I can control the fates.

Unburdened and bouncing now in bloom,

Here I vow to only climb the stalks of serenity.

Fiercely acknowledging what's real and what's root.

Not one more minute or breath will be intercepted by you.

I finally can close the curtains.

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