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I feel that I've not done, Everything that I should do. I've not found the sun, Nor what rain, May have to prove. Every word is dry, With a fighting attitude, Trying to deny, What I'd truly say to you. I've tried to be the kind, To write, And please your very eyes. Yet there comes a time, When my muse, Runs and hides. Nay! This game of pain, Is not what I ordain. Peace will be sustained, On the day, I write again.
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