Mothertongue (The)
Out
It was winter when I started it's nearly summer now:
I've been out too long.
These words I seing are barely works of art,
But it's far too late for this to go wrong.
Should I relent and come out of my hole?
Threat of melencholy is always there.
I'll pull on my shoes and take a stroll,
The grass is always greener in the fresh air.
LET ME OUT!
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