I wrote a poem and scrubbed it from a notebook only moments ago. What fury I found flowing through my fingers as I erased that small expression; I fancied it too revealing for the ugly garish paper on which it had been scrawled. I was told today that true art can only come from a soul that is truly feeling anguish. I am afraid then, to admit that the words with which I attempt to play are merely toys.
"The world you desired can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it is yours."
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