What is inside meare visions of mocking facesturned backsUpturned nosesShunning I am the idiotThat is my archetypeI guess that would mean I act as a comic relief deviceExcept I'm not very funnyAnd I don't find it funny that people laugh atsomeone struggling sizzling swerving crashing into the waves of misfortuneThat didn't make senseSo now people will discount my poemBecause it doesn't make senseIt doesn't follow the fucking rulesAnd it doesn't make sense of not making senseEveryone must draw within the linesMove within the cookie cutterFill it Blunt, yet sharp
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