These walls, they speak to me,
While my fingertips are stained
With ink from the pens we once wrote with.

I cannot breathe because your spoken
Words are wrapping around my throat. 

You left my host vacant
Not even the soul full of 
Wanderlust for humans roams 
This Earth anymore.

I want you to see my name
In a newspaper, seeing I made it.
Or that I eventually just died. 

We'll see which ones comes first.

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