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I am someone   Who is a resident of my head Turning the key to my door Ignoring my upstairs neighbor looming above me, Named dread.  
My walls used to be smooth Easy to tape my art up for display. These ones are textured and rough and no one Sees me anymore.  
But he kept it all inside his head Until he went to get ready for bed Then he spat it all out in front of the mirror Like mouthwash that was too strong
When time exploded, Where were you? I was in the cold depths of icy caverns  with no coat And then a hellish fire pit with no drink of water.  
When you asked me if there was another way and I said no, you knew I was hopeless, but you listened to me anyway.  
Untitled Unbridled Blank page I can do whatever I want to   It's brand new Crisp and clean Ready to made a mess of
Subdued A dryer hue Saturation Sucked straight through   I am Grey While they All look so bright
Throat threaded up thoroughly, Stitches stretched strictly.   Breathing breaks oaths and promises, Whispering white lies to the empty winds.  
It seems as though I cannot succeed without a failure.   To gain flowers that I must hide Instead of nurture within the sun, To gain more confidence and pride
Remember the times where we used to run wild in the streets of our small town. Where we used to be called the misfits of the day. Remember  when we felt the thrill of the wind through our hair
The way I get up every day   With a yawn - a stretch - a scratch   Greeting the morning sun with a grimace   Reaching for the last tendrils of sleep  
Sometimes, when I have an existential crisis like everyone does some time in their life, I turn to Dictionary-dot-com and search myself up.  This is what I see: Iris P.—noun. /ˈaɪ rɪs pi/  
The Old Masters paint ladies with rough horsehair brushes and treat them with noxious turpentine.
There are big and little things that make life great. The little things are what I live for, like sunshine on a clear blue day or clean white daisies blooming in May or a dog's wagging tail.  
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