Last night I read a poem that killed me, Reminded me of all the things I did not see, Can you count the times that you’ve been sad? There’ve been too many disappointments you have had, A suffocating true artist you seem to be, Tormented by your dreams and fear of insanity, My heart grew so heavy with each word I read, The words strait from your soul you must have bled, Books of thoughts, books of ideas, Pages of dreams, pages of tears, Chapters of pain, chapters of sorrow, Books filled with hope now turned so hollow, I read through the poem and it made me cry, I wondered how often you have wanted to die, I continued reading while silently weeping, Knowing well that I would not be sleeping, Amazing poet like you I could never have been, Enough torment and pain I have not seen, How can I exist, how can I be? Last night I read that poem... And it killed me.
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