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March 20, 1999
It is doom and hell
to be a happy person;
it is an inflicted prison of attitude
that is eternally engraved on
the public eye
the public image
the public sympathy.
It is an icy coating of sunshine
the contains me from
and empathy.
In my hour of anguish,
it is my happy life that damns me:
Who listens to the pain,
that comes from behind a smile,
who acknowledges the grumblings,
of the positive girl,
who cares for the woes,
of the caregiver.
Who even glances up to the sighs of despair,
the blatant callings,
the endless tears,
and the ravenously silent tearing of mind, soul, and heart.
Cursed be any and every pedestal
the world has put me on,
that separates me from hope of help.
My love
and leadership
and commradery
deny me of aide from those
who for some foolish, worldly reason
think that I am above them.
How many times can my heart be shattered,
and still remain a mirror without cracked vision.
I give my love away so easily,
I try to touch a soul or two
that no one else will "squander" their time on,
and still, when I set a higher affection
on one special person
the mirror gets shattered and broken
when they drop my soft admiration
like a rock.
And all the while,
the blood is on my hands:
Had I not esteemed you so high...
I'd have less of a place to fall from....

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