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the suicide of miss melancholy

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the suicide of miss melancholy

here hung those lips

Everything... it seems so meaningless
Unless there's hope beyond all common sense
What senses must we stimulate to fill our need?
What we need I cannot seem to reach
I've stretched enough; I've grasped at every reason.
All I've found are endless thoughts in limited space.

Let's not forget what we are
A spectacle of mystical dust
We're puppets to the beckoning hands,
Of paradigms and tedious men.
And I forget who I am
A child without any demands,
Just great aspirations to be
A slave of a lesser degree,
A hostage to be set free... will I be?
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But when all you have is some experience
You'll crucify your
Intellect and give meaning to another day
Because every day seems like the day before
And every thought capitulates in foretaste
Am I immune to my deficiency?
What is the point in these moralities?

Let's not forget what we are
A galaxy of incessant bizarre.
A burst of life from an unconscious abyss,
A mother's tongue and a Judas kiss.