Diseased.

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It plagues the mind, whistling and howling.

It becomes animal-like in its passion.

Subtleties are hidden away in the mind,

as complex thoughts from another world,

that seduce and disarm.

The inner thoughts of a poet, thrashing,

begging for an escape, to just be released.

Crevices hide the natural emotion,

that plays just within reach of shadows.



Not many understand the words of a poet,

dismissed as nonsense that laughs at the world in its confusion.

But the mockery proves real, a genuine puzzle.

That when pieced together, forms the image of ourselves.

Despising the forbidden fruit of writing secrets,

and yet unable to determine the cause.

Poets will always live on in infamous irony,

consumed with a fire of exquisite AGONY.





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