All my marked books lay on my night table
gathering the unforgiving dust
that depositates within the papers' thin grains
All the books I've been trying to read
sit there still and mock me.
The thick ones, the thin ones, plays and novels
and all my favourite poems.
And I'm too tired, too bored, too grey...
I haven't touch them in days
So they mock me,
me and my pathetic busyness...
me and my pathetic lie.
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