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If I fight the Push,
I will die.
It will crush me,
Reform me into
Something different.

If I become apathetic,
I change yourself
And the Pressure,
the Press, still wins,
And stays for Eternity.

The Pressure is there,
Always pushing.
I thought it would stop,
or at least,
That I’d get used to it.

But I don’t.
It pushes and pushes,
Crushing me,
Ever so slowly.
Soon I’ll begin to smell

That metallic smell,
of the blood
Filling my lungs.
And I’ll realize
I’m starting to drown.

But it’s too late
To stop, to leave.
The disappointment
That comes with giving up
Is too much.

My lungs would explode.

Should I fight?
Refuse to accept my fate?
Or do I become apathetic,
and hope the Pressure
Forgets I exist?

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