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a poem seems these days not even Satan wants my soul in every time and every way i dig myself a hole i fill it up with sadness, pity, loathing, tears, and rage i fill a book and start anew writing on the page every day i make my life the way it has to be for if it weren't then i'd be someone other than just me if ever i made any sense, the time for it is now the only problem haunting me is this one question: how? i lost my touch with reality the day that i was made and when i die, this cold cruel nightmare, surely it will fade i wirte my words and then forget exactly what i mean and think again, and then and then i rewrite the scene the words i write don't mean a damn thing; stop trying to know for if you ever had the key, then i would tell you so by forthelove |