Is there no sonnet in pain? I ponder as I laid On a bed made of thorns Rumored to provide the comfort of hay.
I proclaim, life is suffering it exists as endless buffering between periods of happiness. Song of dreadfulness in our ears, cluttering cluttering cluttering, Song of happiness stuttering stuttering stuttering.
For why is happiness transient? While demons lay persistent. Are angels real? Or is pain the only true ordeal?
I know of many, including I, that hum in delight, Along the tunes of life claiming to provide fanciful bonnets of happiness But what of sadness?
Well that is transient my friend
but happiness is permanent,
They answer
Well in their response, they err
Among their blatant lies to ponder again, I dare
Is there no sonnet in pain?
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