"You don't talk much, do you?"

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To love and care for, to live and let be,

Are all things that are natural to me.

Yet my lungs fail to harbor the breath,
 
To voice my true emotions in depth.
 
 
Demeanor timid and confidence meek,
 
I prefer combustion than to speak.
 
A victim of glares and silent judgement,
 
The torture seems to never relent.
 
 
Therefore, I am imprisoned by my mind,
 
Caged by these bars I hide behind,
 
Molded of senseless neuroticy,
 
Concerning what others think of me.

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