There is no poetry in the mundane and out of sleep awake asleep just a moment of reconciliation that all childhood dreams are gone and nothing but the rules of survival remain all the beauty days gone and nothing remains but the song and a clinical diagnosis of depression. And yet the days go on. And life goes on. And sadness slips away, like everything else every now and awhile. And smiles come and go. And there is healing. But the rawness never completely goes.
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