How can anyone love me,
If I don’t love myself?
Why must my heart be,
Breaking, crumbling in on itself?
Is it simply the way the cookie crumbles?
With hatred welling in my innermost depths,
Tis an experience which truly humbles,
All done in twelve easy steps.
Melancholy, it is my life,
I carry an umbrella when the sun shines,
I cry blood tears, brought by a knife,
I’m trapped, afraid to go outside the lines.
This is truly a bad poem, khajiit says it is so,
Now the argonian wants me to go.
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