Under the Magnifying Glass.

Why wasn't the question - it was the morphine. I asked it for some relief it never indeed provided me. I needed more. I questioned more. It gave me nothing. Of course, I was left feeling empty. There was never enough to satisfy this need, which I couldn't relinquish. A thirst no one could ever quench.

Maybe my head was filled with too many things. I'm just writing it out to escape what no one else wants to know about. I like it better when people don't know these things about me. "I'm an open book." Bullshit. I call myself out but never verbally. I'm just playing a game where the rules were never explained to me. You'll figure it out as you go or lose, but they say no one's competing.

It all felt like bologna to me. Watch what you're saying, pay attention to who's looking, don't you know they're always watching. An ant they magnify doesn't matter how small they are still bound to see. Can you forget the critiques? Maybe, eventually. I was going to wait and see. Find what they never did. That was all me.

You go before me. That's not polite; it's the fear inside of me. It's creeping out. You see it but know nothing about it. We're just laughing about it now. How similar and oppositional we just might be. Why? I stopped questioning. Uninterested, I found you to provide me with no relief. So to this quest, I keep trekking.