I've sat at this desk a dozen times or more trying to summon rhymes. It's forced. So unamused. Nothing to prove. Just punching a dying horse. But I keep sitting here. Scripting weird nuggets of my discourse. Mourning my death. Pretend it's a musical. Attending my funeral with orchids of red. Metaphors I've said before. My creative side's so personified and I'm so bored I'm impressed. Search for truth and answers. Never question what they'll mean. I made the chains visible and can't remember that I'm free. Hate existence, which is ironic when you're made for living.
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