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Reality Of MY Life The medics tell I'm not gonna make it because I just can't take it , they give me a feeling that I can not just shake it.
They tell what to do and how to survive, but I feel my life should not derive just because some pieces of paper decide to be my makers.
Why should I listen to them, when all they do it make me cough flem.
They tell me I'm mystery and they don't know what wrong. It's always the same song
Instead of looking for the answers the push me aside and the think I will go away if they abide their time.
Well I'm not giving without a fight. I will keep swinging will all my might
If i get pushed down I will spit on their face instead of the ground. They're the one who are pushing me to fall, saying I should giver up all
Telling me I just have bad luck, that basically translates they don't give a f#ck.
They'd rather give a cheap answer and push away, then take the time to look rather then away.
They its the system, that it's not them. Well I can tell you that is full shit.
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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