No one replied to my post either. Argh.
I'll talk to you if you ever need someone to talk to 
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As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry, like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve. And I am never real; it is just a sketch in me. And everything I made is trite and cheap and a waste of paint, of tape, of time.
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