What am I running from?
Is it shame or guilt?
Frustration? Anger?
Is it who I am?
Who I will be?
Who I was?
Fear of death?
Something else?
I don’t even know,
what I’m running from.
Yet I run on and on,
and now life is a dream,
that I cannot wake from,
for my nightmares,
might lie outside the dream.
Maybe I will stop running.
For a little while.
It’s time to wake.
To see what comes.
Remember why I’m running.
Maybe I can face it.
Or maybe I will run again.
Will it be nightmares?
Or just phantoms?
I am so tired.
Tired of running.
Poetry
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