At times all I have is my rage 

That, and the blank of a page 

So if I can, I hold it all in 

Until I find paper and pen

At times all I have is my sorrow

That, and the dread of the morrow

So I rest my tired eyes 

Upon long narrow lines 

At times all I have is my bliss

And it is then,

That I do not write

But instead live 

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