Patience never was my thing
I always try to rush along
Unless my nerves with tension sing
And rushing forward just feels wrong;
Then I waver and I wait
But not with patience, no, not that.
Then I am a reprobate
For whom existence all feels flat
And only action can give sense
Except that this has been denied
Without a form of recompense
And so I in my quaver hide
Feeling unfortunate but slow
And letting everything else go.
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