frustration is a warm, familiar room,
within the catacombs that line my mind,
filled up with countless crumpled paper balls
a battered desk bought second hand
a thousand pens [half of them work]
and paintings of the past hung on the walls...
bare bulbs hang from the ceiling,
shine harshly in my eyes
casting shadows on the images
washing out the colors
until I cannot find the difference
between what was...what is...and what was never meant to be.
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