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Transit: City Hall

I fear that

I'm not delicate enough to do tragedies
My hands too rough to make art
The soul too fragile to handle truth
These eyes too dry to cry

My laughter is less,
My smile worth nothing

I've not read enough,
Written far too little
My words are good enough to make you move
My voice too soft to be heard
Too loud to be truly heard

This story I tell is too personal, and that no one would care. No one will care, because why would they?

A B for lit and a B for theatre
Judged by people who judge for a living

Who am I to dispute that?
How could I?

Too personal again, not watched enough films, can't edit, can't write, improvement? - not enough.
Never enough.
These, I say, are lies: I carry the lies I learn from others, from my hallowed past.
Jesus tells me that I'm good, and that I will be good.
I believe him a waste of time, but his message isn't.
His message isn't. 

Lies I tell
Myself.

Lies I tell others, right through them,
While my beating heart leaps to escape its chamber.




And I am inadequate, I make a wrongful assumption that I will never improve. My minds drifts again to the problem of food, usually placed on the table. I think of everyone who I believe is better than I am. The line is longer everyday. I am afraid and unsure of my resolution, no matter how strong it is: I am on the edge choosing survival or death. And all of this
All of this is survival.

All of it.

All survival, how can I let it be. How to stop thinking? How to, how to go back to a time of waste and silence.
Those days of haze and malaise. From bed to floor to bed to floor to bed to floor.

My grandfather is dying and I reject time with him.

Time.



I was dying. Nat, I was dying.
Nat!

I am dying!

Nat! Nat!




Time.

Promise me this,
I will try my best,
I will not step off the edge.

Look for the colours,
Everyday, look for the colours.



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