To be filled with so much doubt,
So much angst.
To be constantly feeling every curve
Of the anticipation you create.
To feel everything,
At all times..
It’s tiring, it hurts.
It spells and smells
Of defeat.
It leads to dead ends
With lonely, rusted signs
Awaiting the return
Of the person who thought
It was all gone.
Except it’s not.
Feelings will always dredge up
The unwanted..
This doubt is eating me,
I’m fighting myself,
Choking the hell out of my own life
And I patiently await the day it stops..
But perhaps the madness
Has only just begun.


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