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Dom Mar 31
Well, in the weight of it,
All these thoughts that bury a spark
Creativity suffocates in the absence of light
Where these clawing arms reach from the floorboards
To pull me under tenebrous silhouettes -
Ripping my skin to the **** of my soul
Poking their rods to extinguish my all,
I am famished from the hunger for a muse in the music
I am thirsty for a tide of color -
Oppressed by the terrorist of harmony,
A prisoner of war in my melancholy.

— The End —