Sometimes I think to myself:
and it kills me
Due to my context
who I am
where I am
I don't think I'll ever touch
anything close to that
(Even this sounded better in my head)
and the last thing I want to be
is some jealous bitter hag
who can't be happy for nobody else
who is too busy wanting other people's lives
paths
friendships
instead of making her own
too torn between the writing life
(disciplined, secluded, focused)
and living a life worth writing about
(outgoing, wild, where the best nights are the ones you forget)
because she wanted it all to be now now now
So people were always characters
and life split into chapters
and lived as though there were some cohesion
until the day nothing mattered anymore
Maybe it works out in that way
In order to see all that I do
I have to be a distance away from it
nothing new here, nothing new
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