not even through written comprehension,
so all the thoughts that run through my mind,
go unseen like the world to the blind,
and my lips just fall in in a silent spell,
and my soul dies in this personal hell,
as I become very vague,
and wish I had a cure for the plague,
but never the less I never shall,
and this is a bullet to my morale,
as my brain wonders if living ever pays,
in these wasted days,
of wasted breath,
searching for a reason not to want death,
but the reasons are meek,
as I do a deep critique,
of my very well being,
never ever seeing,
the answers to the question,
all, because I am not good at expression,
leaving me dead in this depression
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