whack-a-mole.

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I can’t grasp if there’s anything good within me.
Why do people keep pestering me with their grace?
Let them all pass me by, go our separate ways,
For my life’s set ablaze.

Of these flames is the oxygen I can consume,
In these flames is the peace of a motherly womb;
I erupt, I’m irate, I will dig my own tomb
With a mole’s silent gaze.