Sometimes you have to spill it...

Everything is looking angelic to me.
Like I'm already on the stair case.
As if I've seen the last thing to take my breath away.
Shit, I'm even cool with death.
Everything I'm made of is slipping through the depth,
Words I didn't say crept up on me and left
The only burden on my time line.
What matters are the pieces left on my chess game, and who remembers my name.

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