The Pen and The Wind

The writings and musings of a windswept soul.
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I sometimes think I can’t exist, 
I’m far too improbable to live in this reality,
I think I’m held in purgatory,
The solitary, subtle hell,
Not direct pain and torture,
But the psychological torment,
Of solitary confinement,
Every day the walls close in more,
Every day the air turns thicker,
And I’m screaming in terror and protest,
But it falls on deaf ears,
What have I done to earn my sentence,
In this most silent of hells?
Why do I deserve this? 

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