Holding onto the black ink,
Your hand is mess, but your head is clear.
Your white sheets are filled in a blink
you are the captain of your thoughts,
and all the trouble in there will wrought
Turn up the music, to lower all that noise
the clutter feels all the same, the distresses have their own voice.
Red ears, racing heat and all those incidents happening inside your head
are not real. breathe!
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