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I hate writing, but I'm apparently good at it I don't think people would say that if they knew what it took. How broken I need to be to create words How silenced I need to be. They don't know that these words go well with the streams that run down my face That every punch line is a blow to my gutter Gasping for air Every sentence my lifeline The little string I hold on to so I can make it to tomorrow. Every passage a page in the book of my life that I'm trying to turn over. A chapter in trying to end. A life I can no longer bear. Every rhyme a wish. A desire to be heard, to be understood. To find similarities, so I don't have to feel like I'm alone I wonder if I'd still be a good writer if you knew how it broke me. How it killed me How much I hated it
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