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Nov 2016
The day will come where it takes a mortician
to show you there are worse things than your depression.
Death and/or dismemberment.
It's not just a falsified insurance claim.
The day you fell to your knees and wept over the great pacific ocean
In the city of angels you were humbled by its majestic potion.
A message in a bottle sent.
Or it was swept carelessly away in the rain.
The day you spoke about your loneliness sitting in an upright-coffin-confession.
Adjacent to the man who ***** children to make himself feel... more... man.
Literally, I meant.
Did that yet distract your pain?
The day you cried to the doctor about your back and lack of motion.
She had just finished up hospice for her cancer-ridden husband over the phone.
Off to die, he was sent.
But, oh, that little tiny pain.
The day you complained to your flat-mate about your job being so mundane.
As she opened the letter from her employer who fired her, after ****** her, to avoid the human resource claim.
You were hell-bent.
As she went insane.
The day you cried to your best friend about your second wedding being destroyed by the rain.
He was a man who had never felt the embrace of love, the ability to cherish, the passion and pain of a woman, he had paralyzed legs, no woman had ever loved him.
Booooooo-hoo your costume got wet.
You've never even tried to see anothers suffering.
Perspective. What is torture to me, may seem idiotic to another, and vice versa.
Written by
saranade  Phoenix, Arizona
(Phoenix, Arizona)   
     Dana Colgan and saranade
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