My life is worth a fistful of thumbtacks.
More than realistically needed in a lifetime.
More than a hand should hold.
Because I am an irritated healing sore.
My life feels as tender as iron nails.
I struggle with ideas of how this life should be.
My life sounds like a train, lost control.
I dream about worlds I cannot otherwise comprehend.
My life is as malleable as lidocaine.
My life isn’t worth your time.
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