My hands are coarse.
They have forbiddingly felt and wish to forget.
My eyes are heavy.
Each long for the nightshade to cover their signs of regret.
My room is dirty.
It is consumed with empty bottles and crossed out paper.
My face is burdened.
It holds the tainted complexion of a troubled sleeper.
My motives are guilty.
Too many intentions marred by ideas unwanted.
My actions are weak.
They only lead to easy paths frequently trotted.
It asks, what does it take to change?
My forcibly softened inner voice pleads.
How much dirt can you permit to derange?
It whispers; Enough. Raise the volume and trust where I lead.
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