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Of Lead Balloons and Constipation of the Soul.

Just refuse
to hold
on, so it seems. 

Something deeper
has its grips on me.
Like a cloud, alive, hovering
over my head, sinking
teeth in me. Though I need
the surface to keep
breathing, 
I’m prone to dropping
like a lead balloon,
asphyxiating.

Wings trimmed
for this sentence,
after all, drawn
towards the stars
above this prison
nonetheless
in dreams
and aspirations.

Past and future haunt me.
No faith in what I have seen of either.
Lacking confidence, low on the hope
that we will overcome
this, though still
I remain, pushing, straining.

“Just fucking let go.”

Am I just stubborn,
determined,
or is it truly
that I’m
procrastinating?

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