Notes upon notes flood the pages,
at my fingertips, words form, but at what cost?
I waste away at my own worth,
the only thing fueling the fire within me -- fear.
Fear to lose my sense of self.
Fear to lose the one thing I can rely on.
I can only project my thoughts into words
if they are in someone else's chapter.
I am not my own person.
I am but pulling the strings to a story I may never even finish.
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