I talk about my feelings,
they're just on paper.
Why waste breath
on things others have said?
The count grew higher
and then I reached a stop.
Thirteen.
Superstitions do come true.
I've lost the talent
and my pen
to the disease
which hampers my mind.
Now how do I get through?
No one listens.
I could scream like a banshee
but I think they hear whispers.
So I'll try
and hope to find a cure
to the syndrome
of the poetic psyche.

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