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No actual poetry. I can promise you that. Spare you innocence. And your brain cells
Wrote them all when I was fourteen >.<
Save yourself pls
Rhythmic chants
And all the dances
Can’t summon hope in our hearts
When I was here
A life of what
Confusion in
The darkest sums

What I have known
Was nothing new
Nothing old
Just endless rue

Those days of pain
And crises too
Existence stings
But void does too

I’ll wait for what
I don’t know yet
The gleaming sun
The warm of love.
I just hope someday he'll find someone to love him
Because I certainly won't
I'm cold
I just can't forgive him
Not again
I always liked to be optimistic in my fiction writing. My characters of course would face all the problems of the world, but never alone. They always had a friend or someone they could lean on. They never knew the sharp, cutting pain of what it means to be truly alone.
I can't read it when I'm lonely. Or ever, really. It stings to know I'll never have what I've always dreamed of.
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