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they are the ones who didn't make it,
the ones whose notebooks are filled with scrawl
and scribbled out words,
those who struggle to find inspiration
and find inspiration in their struggle.
those for whom effort is not only lifeblood,
but poison.
success an apple, so crisp, so sweet,
laced with hatred by life itself.
they are the ones who worked hard,
built bridges only to burn them,
they are the ones who stayed home,
because the world took too much.

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