I wash my hands but the stains won’t come out,
Pales in comparison to the sting of my gout.
Not quite sure where my path does lead,
But at this present moment I beg for reprieve.
Cause my mind is swimming in too much fog.
It’s similar to being trapped in a bog.
The atmosphere cloying and far too thick.
Rather be left to chew on a brick.
And while I say that now I know I won’t soon,
Especially when I’m met by the monsoon.
A drowning sense that will come in late.
It’ll all but seal my rotten fate.

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