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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #1359695
bitter sadness at my own hand
My eyes, red with tear-stained bitterness,
behold the world apart from myself.
I am artificial night.
Yet I steal away with the sun of contentment.
I...
I who draw each ragged breath because I have a maker,
I loathe my own demise,
yet bring it to fruition with every fateful drink.
Blessed are the silent
for they have denial to defeat depression.
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