My pen is tired
Worn out, fatigued
The body and soul
Flustered, lightheaded
The words are short
While writing about pain
There is no end to it
The unending wolfsbane
Destined to rot away
In constant disarray
While there is no respite
And, constantly in fray.
Writing is my solace
My comfortable space
The world within my brain
While my suffering is effaced.
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