Nothing at all
I don't think I can stop these teardrops
I try to hold them back
But they want to fall
I don't feel loved, I feel alone
I am becoming nothing
Nothing at all
Nothing at all
I don't think I can stop these teardrops
I try to hold them back
But they want to fall
I don't feel loved, I feel alone
I am becoming nothing
Nothing at all
Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.
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