Is It

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  • Lost Love

    Is It

    Walking through your days a shell,
    All life drained from you.
    By memories that you don't want,
    That flow through your head.
    Nobody can ever tell,
    Just what's going on.
    Nobody really cares,
    If the pain comes from the past or present.
    Your future is a blur,
    The past is too real,
    The present is made of confusion.
    They all swirl together.
    You try to keep all where they belong,
    The past keeps coming forward,
    I couldn't stop it if i tried.

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    Poetry comes nearer to vital truth than history.

    Plato (BC 427-BC 347) Greek philosopher.

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