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my room is my mind,
full of foul errors.
my bed is my heart,
where passion erupts.
my art is my soul,
my creative affection.
my mind fills with horrors,
to which i pay no attention.
i wonder if the voices shall stop,
if only doth were enough.
what are the things i see,
yonder in thou direction?
no i'm not an artist,
just a simple imperfection.
naive and overwhelmed,
craving all affection.
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