Under the conclusion that he's terminally ill

Incurable to the highest of standard pill

With some lonely mind debilitating disease

Lacking the time or willingness to trust

His definition of love has turned to temporary lust

His heart once shattered with an eloquent thrust

So he squanders his abilities in a nihilistic fashion

Wasting the limited time he should use in ration

That's his hobbie,the waste of passion

Now awaiting on what will come next

If he'll escape this curse

or remain hexed.

To continue writing garbage poems

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