Thinking is a form of containing the opportunity and possibility of undefined direction. I inhibit introspection with the fear that the path of my intuition is unclear. I appear to be steering away from the sincere. While each year I grow older my will to create becomes colder. Frozen in my life that is supposedly ‘chosen’, I feel encapsulated and aggravated and contaminated, my only desire to be inebriated. My heart is as broken as the bottles on my front lawn, and I still breathe at dawn a drunk that is now long gone. While I taste the remnants I am filled with resentment and a guilt that directs me to amendments. Though before I evoke an internal war by deciding to pour what I bought at the liquor store, I instead think of ways I can restore my core and become something more because my purpose cannot be ignored.
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