It is one-thirty-six in the morning,
my eyes are stretchy and yet somehow,
sleep cannot find me.
It feels as if I were a child again,
there is this voice in my head.
My room is dark,
the mirrors shine with the ligth of the screen.
I'm paranoic, so people say,
seeing that what isn't there.
I said I felt like a child again,
because I am not.
Yet here I am, confessing,
and it is one-thirty-nine.
I don't know where to start,
and the seocnds go by...
He asks, and he screams at me.
And it is now, one-forty-one.
I've heard this cry, a thousand times,
but now it is more bitter, more full of hate.
[All I said was I was bored of this game]
It was three-thirty,
and I was feverish.
It was three-fourty-nine,
and I was caugth.
[Feverish, cheating]
We all bore in the end,
I merely said this aloud.
And for once...
It is one fourty-three,
and I am asleep.
I'm sorry.
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