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by Zeke Feb 17, 2007 category : Sadness, depression / about depression
I write poetry and prose, to me the mind is no rose. A cage, full of refuse, not some mangy thorn. The consistent beating, No wonder I scorn. In tears I see power, In brawn I see no brain. To me happiness is pain. There is something wrong with being cheery. It makes a man all leery. I still can’t stand a frowning man, to much emotion in his gaze. For me the path is solemn bleakness. I learn as I go, making no signs what-so-ever. I like having no one know.((E.A. Poe made his life off of rhyming poems, why can't I?))