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To feel myself empty
Is very fulfilling.
I ask the people of the world
Why must we keep boxes of
each race, barricades in each
Borders, separate lives of each
Cultures, as our truth varries in
    each mirrored choices, then we
Carry the havy consequences,
The burden of these shackled
Past - we ponder to wonder
These nightmarish Regrets
So in the end, the answer is
Subjective, rules and walls
Are there for a reasonable
Purpose
It maybe
good or bad
Light or dark
Day or night
An infinite battle
Running in circles
         to maintain
chaos and order
in one box.
we the inhabitants of the world
Conquerors to our own selfish deeds
Our Survival depends
to the equally cruel
jungle and our own fellow.
I’m damaged goods
And I don’t know why
They say that I’m great
Their eyes tell me lies

I’m broken, I’m beaten
A victim of abuse
I’m angry, heartbroken
Tired of all the misuse

It’s a matter of time
Before the glue runs dry
The pieces now scattered
And the last of me dies
Searching for air
Gasping, choking
Unable to breathe
In the face of glaring defeat
Overwhelmed by thoughts
Wanting to give up
Wanting to fight more
A mess of contradictions
Looking for answers
Trying to ask the right questions
Trying not to shy away
Trying to stay strong
Trying to find the right words
Trying not to be contrived
I'm trying
Trying
Trying.
Perhaps death will be kinder
My attempts to live are in vain.
The world expects a happy poem,
I am but a sorrowful refrain.
I'm a poem from an unknown poet
Written to be broken and crude
A rough draft misplaced, without thought
One that's easily misconstrued.
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