{Poem #25}

More and more I see my strangeness.
I see my inability to accept a purposeless life,
in myself or others.
Am I strong because I’m found?
Strange because I’m happy?
are my poems any less because my soul
doesn’t wanter in melancholia?
They may say I’m unqualified.
To happy to have anything to say.
But we’ve all had times where we’ve wandered,
we’ve all questioned our worth.
We’ve all been confronted with doubt.
We’ve all felt like hell and harrow caught us in it’s clutches.
We’ve all been there, I am not exempt.
I’ve been in trials, I’ll be in more.
The only difference.
I didn’t stay there.

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