Narrow hallways in morning
Where the sun wont come through
I laid cramped on the floor through the night, painted blue
Early sky with no warmth
Like a push, but not forth
Dragged behind my shortcomings
Bitter, like a child being born

Harrowing signs, I am in mourning
Barreling down the familiar tunnel
Painted on the walls are fiction
And distorted ways of thought
Painted on my skin
Anticipant horrors, the weight of the drop
And nearing the bottom, I set my gaze on those watching from the top
Endless tragedies, my spirit bent by a massive truth

I learn to hate all too well
I desecrate myself in life, working to ensure an effectively complacent end
Don't look at me if you don't know how
I don't want to show you

Here, I've come to be inherently marred by the faults of my predecessors
Whom I cannot rightly define myself from
Further puzzled by the lessons the god presents, and how we've become so estranged from the story's start

And then there are those who spot but don't point out the colorfully deranged hints of truth
Sewn throughout my manic monologues and improvised performances
They mirror me as we deflect the efforts of the sad clowns stirring behind our facades
Suppressant coping mechanisms wearing an entertainer's mask
I stop thrashing around in panic
Slow motion plummet
As I watch tears precede me in the fall down.

This poem is about: 
Our world


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