i walk the finest line between
a mortal death and a life within
a mortal death and a life within
a dream to last and last, it seems
my life in poetry remains
the only way i can escape
the weariest of all my thoughts
as i pour my ugliness, i take
and mold, and mold, and mold again
until my muse declares 'enough!'
my words in hope to breathe a verse
so beautiful it sings thereof
what circumstances i've endured
here in my heart, and mind, and soul
and oh, by this gentle affair
my thoughts will stay, they will not go
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