Could my words describe a familiar place
A feeling of love or a bitter taste
Or do they echo through time as an endless rhyme
Never stopping to unravel, leaving naught behind

Perhaps they’re merely spoken out of such demise
An incoherent babble of a madman sublime
Should they speak of rage as of life in a cage
I have written of hate, such a shocking page

Yet I would that my words could somehow describe
The part of me buried inside
And so they may know I am something else
Than the person you see when you look at yourself
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