A consequence of far too much to feel.
Perhaps the stew becomes too rich to render,
Parts of which, still tough, remain too real.
Yet what you feel is what you are, so feel it,
Hemorrhaging your sorrow, rage, regret.
Out it comes again, as censors clear it,
Leaving you again, again, and yet ...
In feelings, the negatives will reign,
Dependent as we are on being right.
Although we know that love's what keeps us sane,
Yet we would avoid the loves we fight,
Still feeling what we cannot help retain.
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