That I haven’t written,

That my life has become a conveyerbelt; a

factory-produced, manufactured,


I want to scream out, I want to

yell into a pillow while its softness

engrosses my face like

a man’s hand over my lips.

Frustration is

blinding red, wondering without knowing,

anger just because of

anger, on top of

anger, mixed thick with

more and more anger.

Frustration is

Yelling and


Losing my mind

in a pit of lava

creased with volcanic

rock. Frustration is

thoughts slipping out

of my head through

orafices while my

leaden eyes watch them

as they fall.


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