Shout into the night,
You poor wicked soul,
Noone will hear you.
Screams of ecstacy and pleasure blot the ignorant hour.
Your pleads are so insignificant,
Like that of a cat's small cry,
Into pitied night,
That there is not even the chance
To revoke a sound.

Shout loud,
Shout long,
Try hard to pierce the manifest of life's unwavering pollution.
It will be a win-less battle,
But played right,
A loss-less one as well.
An unsolvable mess of emotion and choas,
Seeping into your world pleasantly,
Salt water sting, rushing over old roots.

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