the poet’s last poem

As I shut the door of my room
I take off my pretentious little mask,
hiding the fact that every day of my life seemed like doom,
asking life ‘is genuine happiness too much to ask?’
I played life’s little game,
apparently not doing well,
I’m obviously the one to blame
but when you ask me, I’ll reply ‘I’m feeling swell’
I feel proud of myself for surviving each day
and condemning myself at the same time
reprimanding myself how my life’s not okay
yet pretending that my life is so sublime
Waterfalls down floor,
as I was holding my one way ticket
to rest that’ll last forevermore
whispering ‘that’s it I reached my limit’


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