The sun fairly shines
But the world isn't one
And you wonder why

Of all the places,
All the people,
It has to be in paper

You could pour your heart out
And bleed your pens
With thoughts imprisoning you

It has to be the paper
That hears your complain and growing pain
For you were never heard

Of all the people,
It has to be pillows and blankets
Who calms your raging soul

In ...

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