A mountain of pain, built from failures.
The inability to express, what I most desire to confess.
I have a dream. I have a dream.
Yet, I amount to naught.
The Writings I make, are the best I've got.
Their vagueness, all the precision I have.
Forever frustrated, I turn to this.
Incomplete, inadequete. The best I've got.
The best I've got.
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