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leaning on the ceiling






















Just as if the woods turn grey and dark
appears a warm sparkle in my hand
and everything seems to be
broken and made
confusing thoughts and
everyhting's leaning
on the ceiling
and it's noticeable
how the words in my head
trade with time
and have a game
which all leads to
the perfect solution
of how I'm just a child
lost in the woods grown by
my own attempts of
trying to understand

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Green dark outside
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The leaves are falling gently off my shoulders that
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Those days and times have certainly been true
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of breaking, bursting, you'll find my voice, soft

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