I nearly died this morning.
I woke up on my floor instead of my bed,
where I slept yesterday in my good senses.
There's a circular mark on my neck.
Someone tried to wind a rope around my throat.
Clearly, I'm not dead yet.
I think they wanted to shut me up.
I feel like a mute now.
They took away my pens,
Broke my pencils,
Burnt my notes,
Buried my journals.
Thanks to the hitman fiber wire trick,
I can't breathe now,
Neither can I write.
Where am I supposed to dump my sadness now?
They were me.
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