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maybe it’s a

primitive, dignified

anger of existence,

at the lack of it,

in this pocket of time which is not endless,

which will come to an end.

its shrill tone

a reminder to live,

saying this is not living.

but sometimes it just comes out as resentment

and looks for victims to accuse

instead of motivation

to do


i’m only happy

when i’m sad

or maybe i’m only alive

when i’m feeling

and maybe the only feelings i know how to feel are sadness

and bittersweetness

isn’t that the central issue,

the one of feeling alive;

of eroticism?

maybe that’s why i’m so angry

when i’m not alive

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