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Re-creating a painting I did.

  

But then my knees give under me, my head feels weak

and suddenly it is clear to see that it is not them but me, whose lost my self-identity.

As I hide behind these books I read, while scribbling my poetry

like art could save a wretch like me, with some ideal ideology that no one can hope to achieve.

And I am never real; it's just a sketch of me.

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Taken on August 28, 2011