I was a better man back then.
Striving in the bosom of fear.
It was always there.
Like a soul craving spectre.
It’s my own demon.
I’ve carried it since I can remember.
I secretly despised those without the curse.
Pathetic breathers of tortured men’s air.
Who did not deserve an ounce of pain.
Crushed by it since my memory began:
dread of the ordinary life.
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