I'm scared of days
But I'm scared of nights more
When the lights are dimmed out and the hustles of the citylife have retired for the day
I lie wide awake, my tightly shut eyelids trying hard to convince me to fall asleep
While the insides of my very existence lie wide awake
Staring into the abyss of the darkness of my four walls
Negotiating for regrets to be forgiven as experiences
While wondering, in the depths of it's messed up flesh
When do you run out of second chances?
When do you know you've had enough?
When do you say to yourself, "this is it"?
Do you keep piling onto the corpses of your expectations until the day you pile on as a corpse, dead from existing?
Or do you let go of it all, because you've bled a whole lot, and can't afford more dying expectations?
Where do you draw the line, which one's fair?
Once you've lived enough, you've died enough
Do you live enough till you cease to exist?
Or, do you live enough till you choose to exist?
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