There's something about this need to want things I'm never likely to have.
Something about these patients, because I often wait, waiting on some miracle to liberate me from the misery of my dreams;

I dream miserably.

There's something about the tolerance I have for myself,
Always justifying the way I feel.

Something about my oppression.

I feel my dejection is my only submission to the world-
My only colors offered, black and blue,
Occasional shades of grey, but only on my good days.
And sometimes light resonates off of the lives of others,
Just enough to suit my relevance, but
I then find shade.

Sometimes I stand in the rain.

There is no gain.
There is no change,
And still, I dream miserably,
Miserable in the fact
That I've come to believe,
So unequivocally,
That I'll always strive to be,
What I'm never likely to see.


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