Now that you think
Highly of yourself
Maybe it's time
To close off
That pit of despair
That you would carry
Around
Like a black hole
Where memories
Are mixed in
With the bitterness
Of stems
And thorns
Of roses
Of illusion
Delusion
That springs from
Ignorance
A deep black, active
Type of ignorance,
Like a spinning wheel
Of knives
It's time to
Close off
That pit
Of despair
That you would carry
And step into
Like your own
Personal
Black hole
Of memories
That takes in
And gives nothing
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