It's in my mind where I scream,
But no, you'll never see it.
I despise all these aesthetic formalities.
Painting the picture you want to see over the stained truths.
If I did scream, would you even look my way?
Even I can no longer tell where I'm going.
A warm sigh passes these lips, welcoming the numbing winter.
The changing seasons warrant the dwindling of the remaining life.
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