Night grows silent, nary a sound
The best time to write, I have found,
to compose poetic impressions.
Pages in leather tomes, they're bound.
Lines of repentant expressions,
attesting to indiscretions
and the sorrow they did impart.
Each verse filled with my confessions.
Nib of my pen hurled as a dart
at its target, my wounded heart.
With self-inflicted pain it bleeds
Torn into pieces, ripped...
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