A comfortingly quiet rejection,
Of a comforting kind of affection.
With the candidates off to election,
It would seem self mutilation,
Leads the polls upon inspection.
Upon the silent confirmation,
That destruction is creation,
A life's worth of frustration,
Makes death seem as salvation,
Or the sensation of elation.
Upon the ending of affection,
With it's singular rejection,
Death is ever more salvation,
Life only more the frustration.
My life was the destruction,
My death my last creation.
Try saying this out loud, it sounds really cool.
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