Some count sheep to help them sleep
while others wealth in hoarded heaps
I count days as they endless creep
two hundred sixteen since I began to weep

Some write songs of light and life
with joy and laughter — their being rife
I write songs on the edge of a knife
darkness, sorrow, pain, and strife

Some fill their days with love and laugh
when shown the glass — it’s full to half
I write words in broken paragraphs
I write the words of my epitaph

Some see their days in zest and dash
their joyous hours of mirth and flash
mine mired still feel your stinging lash
all hope and dream has turned to ash

Some find in comfort as they tend
to household bliss they recommend
I only pray for some kind of end
the silent violence on me condemned

Some dream their dreams and wishes fine
as all around they wine and dine
I can’t pretend the stars still shine
as they once did in better times

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