It’s sad to sit and picture this,
A future blurred with mighty mist,
I raise my eyes and view the hills,
My comforter, a piece of tin
I’m scared of folks, of flashing lights,
Of pitched squeaks and friendly hugs,
My breath’s short and I’m feeling tugged,
My comforter, imaginative wit,
I refrain from thought, in excess I guess,
‘Cause I feel so manic, pressure on my steps,
Kind of a mystic seeing conjecture often,
My comforter, drown the voice in tunes,
I’m introverted but it’s more than that,
This intense revulsion speaks of more than norm,
See I sit and picture that beginning phrase,
“You are cursed to see nothing but the haze
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