Magenta

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I find it harder and harder to write
perhaps now I feel almost nothing
Or perhaps I feel it all at once

And my little brain can only think of processing it all
But never actually does

When I am gone and you find yourself in the land of unpublished literature

And you care not enough for yourself to read my work

Pity me not
For I write not of my pain
cursed to understand everything else except my self.

Some claim to understand me,but tell me sorcerer how do you understand what you do not know.

I do not say enough for you to know me
I just say enough for you to want to know me

You see I make everyone I converse with a necromancer
pity they do not see I am dying inside.

But not for long
I've prayed about it and any day now I will no longer show you my tears
the sight of me crying is a spectacle I am too selfish to display.

What does it matter in the end
perhaps when I lay to rest and return to dirt,
I'll be used to grow onions

And make people cry the way I should have Everytime I was hurt

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