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I turn on the light and search for the answer.
If the muse won’t hear me, then perhaps the pencil
Will render some vision, perhaps an omen,
Will clear up the haze, which at the moment,
Smothers my lungs from the inside out.
It’s so easy to hide within, without

You at my side. I need you near me.
I’d scream, but I doubt that you would hear me,
Since the sound that travels the given distance
Is certain to blend into nonexistence.
Therefore I’m biting my tongue, crestfallen,
And searching for verse to put my soul in,

Since the body’s too small to contain this passion
And either way, it is certain to return to ashes
Faster than verse, which survives long after
And propels the passion. Who said that laughter
Is the best cure for grief and sadness?
It perishes quicker and drives to madness

Faster than pain. Therefore, I don’t hide it.
In short, this hunger can’t be subsided.
It grows and multiplies in your absence,
It eats up words and feeds on nonsense.
The stubborn pencil evokes your presence,
The rest is silence, and you’re its essence.