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The Artist, frustrated would that a bird carry away my words to a world that saw reason in my rhyme . . . but alas, i feel we are about out of time, and night settles like a heavy blanket, wet dousing the fires of my passion 'til the morrow (oh why must i always live for tommorow?) why do i care what people will say on a day that never comes? driven under the lash of my own ego to produce (words) (and phrases) meaningful and subtle when my own life can seem so devoid of meaning and subtle as a freight train wearing down the pennies of my dreams and talents into paper thin shards of copper and steel to open the veins of my wrist and pour out onto this page the blood of my experience for all to see (for themselves) the artist, frustrated (for reason) that saw a world in his rhyme.
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