Just ThinkingMature

I write poetry for no other reason
Than to make me feel better
Whatever the season

It never works that way though
I don't know why I try really
It makes me feel so

Sad that I cannot do anything
About all the woe inside me
No matter what I sing

And no matter what I write down
In this stupid book of mine 
Provoking this frown.

No matter what I do or who I talk to
There's this secret feeling just
Hiding all the way through

Ready to pounce out when I least expect
When I feel happy and I'm smiling
and then its there direct

Into my heart, my soul, my mind
Stripping the grins and no
Smiles left to find

I used to shape things like Christamas trees
Hoping it would make it better to have
Happiness as what my mind sees

Yet they are associated with one another no
More and so when I see them I am
Still covered with this woe

Woe for what? I wonder why
Inside I still just
Want to die. 

The End

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