Somnote Diaries
Doctorshopper
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Exchange by vanity, or inaction
Can't make sense of it all sometimes
Pouring poison in my soul's brook
Will i live to see much more
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With all these grey hairs on my soul
The disorder has grown to great
I long to feel something more
Trapped in a prison
Of chloral hydrate.
Can i rise above?
At my funeral
I don't want any doves.
