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I feel it all the time, eating away at me.

It hurts my heart, breaking it down slowly.

These feelings never end, they're with me all the time, torturing me endlessly, making me regret being alive.

My heart has felt so much of it, that it has shriveled up. My heart is now a shell of what it once was.

My heart is empty, now. It became empty the moment you died, life without you feels impossible.

What is my purpose, anymore?

What is my life even worth, when all I feel is pain every single moment, of every single day?
yet another "poem" about my fiancée, she was the best part of my life. after her death i wrote many poems about her, maybe too many. but my therapist said it would be a good way to cope with things, so here it is. hope you enjoy it. i will be away for the rest of the day now, be well.
I wanted to show you my heart but it left my world tearing apart I don't even wonder why I feel unwell I don't wonder why exist in this world
Àŧùl May 2014
La belle femme Indienne aime un soldat,
Le soldat est mort dans une guerre féroce guerre,
La femme Indienne a été laissé seul et veuves,
Elle porte maintenant un chiffon blanc.


A White Cloth

The beautiful Indian woman loves a soldier,
The soldier is dead in a fierce gun battle,
The Indian woman is now lonely and widowed,
So she wears a white cloth nowadays.
A French-English poem for Indian soldiers and their loving wives.
Widows of Indian martyrs wear white or dull coloured clothes traditionally.

My HP Poem #632
©Atul Kaushal

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