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But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?

Shakespearian drivel.

To die so juvenile

Without life, the real tragedy lies

Within defying Creator.

And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.

Her heart upon her sleeve.

Kill thyself, bipolar maiden.

Thy dreams, thy destiny:

Ashes to ashes.

The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

If only she shall choose life.

And the Nobel Peace Prize

Goes to someone

Not in her own grave.


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