I just don't want to do this anymore
I've got too much to do and I feel ill
I feel besmirched like some sick sonnet whore
Who gets with child although she's on the pill.
And then she has to sort her body out
And back up the mistake that she has made
Beneath bright lights and white walls filled with doubt
The living heart of something in her's stayed.
And every day I do this stupid thing
And waste my precious brain on useless thought
And all the while imagining it will bring
Me fame and wealth but all amounts to nought.
But though I know it's pointless and a pain,
I do it time and time and time again.
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