When the mountains crumble.

I’m a bit nervous today, sick like.
And of health.

I’m weakened by the simple thoughts
That taint the spirit

It’s tough to be alive, for sure.
And for short.

Everyday I aim for a happy life
A complacent self.

But fear is constant, stale like.
Yet conscious.

If only one could measure without error
Where fear is nay.

That’s why I’m always nervous like today, bipolar.
And aware.

Like when a pacemaker skips a step
But doesn’t tell.

Who would realize it? When and where?
But the heart.

Of twenty thousands breaths It fears
Just the first.

For the rest are just the same with, or without that one missing flex.
And for me another thought that drowns the previous day.

And I’ll feel again, sick like.
Maybe quiet swell

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