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Tortures of Transition.

Novocain bleeds away,
left alone with painful clarity.
Armor shed,
sensitive skin exposed
to the relentless elements.

Here we go again.

Every action, an overreaction.
Every perception, dramatized.
My will, a machete
worn to dull butter knife
in the thick jungle of my mind.

Must find a way out of here
before the clock winds down.
I can already hear
the alarm sounding,
clawing at my bleeding ears.

Blazing anger,
ever consuming.
Frozen veins
in the white-knuckled
grip of terror.

Deadline cast around the neck,
feet dancing madly,
aching to break new ground.
Idle hands, drunk
with desperation driving me
to latch into almost anything
as my world
comes crashing down.

Nothing else matters now.

Must thicken the skin.
Sharpen the blade.
Refuse the noose.
Must melt the frigid fear away,
rise from the ashes I made.


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