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Poetry

I

The sinking feeling of the chest,
worst when the din of the day is dead.
When all is silent, it screams,
of the similar stories of midnights past.
And I try to drown them in poetry,
but a song can’t go on forever
and the sinking would just come back
once my fingers stop and the words subside.
If only there were people around me,
the equally clueless humanity,
I could feel good again.
But they’ve transcended mediocrity, it seems
For I stand alone,
as I make the mistakes,
that reek of me.
So profoundly lost is my sense of self,
I should wonder why my reflections
don’t seem strange.
The toothy grin, the heavy beard,
The little fat around the edges
hide someone I do not recognize,
but I will stop not
And will toil till it takes
To find the man
who was born the day I was

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