The poet is feigned
He fakes for his own sake
At night, he even fakes the pain
That constantly keeps him awake

Those who read what they write,
In the written form of pain, they feel delight
But not both, like the author felt
Only, instead, the one they can`t feel,
That still causes him fright

And so on the railroads
It spins, entertains reason,
The wind-up train won`t break apart
Unless he needs another heart...

by Isabella Signa

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