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sleeps for the dead

when she's awake
she's asleep
when she's asleep
she's dead
when words form in her mind
she's insane
her insanity is beautiful
her sadness
the same
but she knows it wont last
picking up a pencil becomes harder
wheres the inspiration?
why write?
why not have a gift
for something that matters
something that people pay attention to
no inspiration
no one to listen
no point
but no matter how hard it is
to keep the pencil in my hand
i can't seem to put it down



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