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Sometimes I am displeased with what I write,
For oft I paint the day as darkest night,
Yet those few friends I love who write as well,
Dispute the fact that heaven is worse than Hell
We all pass on to somewhere I don't know,
But where ere it is I hope we all may go,
For what would I be without those folk who care,
Who give and take and of their moments share.
I grasp at words; my mind seems not to work,
Eager thoughts seem destined now to shirk,
Though in my heart I know the sun will rise,
The flow of words like a desert river dries.
But yet from arid sands come many grains,
Wherein tomorrow's moisture is sustained
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