March always came with such a painful pull. Of course it hurts when buds are breaking, you were raised on the pain, your lineage knows nothing else, but you forget, everyt winter you forget. Was it always this painful to live?And the answer isp robably, yes. Even when it gets painted in such a rosy hue, even when your memories get blurry, softened with age, raisins picked out of a cake on which once you choked.
Your endless optimism is starting to falter,
your eternal sunshine is at last grown dull.
There was so much I wanted to do before this happened.
Now I wonder if I'll get even one accomplishment under my belt.
If the world will fall apart
in step with me.
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