And to a poet, what could be more bitter sweet
Every word flows etched in unhinged emotion
Free now to pen in the absence of sleep
This may sound like a lament, to the non poets
This could sound like one to my very beloved
But now that neither parties any longer speak
I cobble my love, that I had placed at her feet
I always believed sleep was a tad wasteful
For there is always so much to write about
But then, in love the mind grows lazy in comfort
And only in pain can my heart truly be alive
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