The Isle

Lets sketch this:
Its an isle:
In the middle a pushing force called denial.
Whats outside, i don't know.
But i'd go with a neverending depth with water very low.
The land itself is made of quiksand, which will slow me down the more i get to the edge.
And the more it feels impossible the more i want to dredge.
And now in the far distance i see my goal.
Ans i suddenly realize this island is me, and i am the soul.
And as i see the nothingness emerge.
The name pops up in my head.
The name of the verge.
It symbolizes me, the land is drying.
I forgot how to smile
And forgot how to cry
I only know how to lie.
And if i threw myself over the cliff of crying.
Would i ever stop dying?

And i feel myself wear thin.
Getting thirsty, on the brink
Of becoming the sand
I reach out my arm and look at my bony hand.
I feel the water rising.
The more i am lying.
I understand that if i'll start crying.
And sacrife myself by stopping hiding.
And give my body to the sea.
There will be at least something left of me.
I will throw my soul in the ocean while crying.
And by that i'll save myself from dying.

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