short-August may-be

August is coming, there is where…
I drown in an ocean of failures
no paper will paint me colours of aparture
Black and white in paste and pasture
surrounded by failure ’till skin melts to mistakes
no spin, not dizzy, no headaches
afar from depression words come in aches
in commas are spelled into tomes
Lach onto what makes you glad
for happy is not be worshipped
it may in sanity drive you to mad

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