I speak in relative terms
but I'm far from rational.
Irregular, at best
describes my constant
and deviant cravings.
I struggle at breathing,
strain to even care;
because I am imperfection.
Due to my indiscration
I'm reckless in my part-
in fact, I'm rotting to dust.
God, Himself would laugh now,
at my pathatic attempts
I excercise, trying to maintin
myself in some sort of fraction
of humanity, a reason for living.
I can't shake these terrible deeds
that constantly try to infect
my brain with their hedious affects.
Idle time has me left
here, thinking sinister results.
I strive to cure me, to find
a remedy for this dreadful
disease I carry always.
I heard laughter is the best
medicine, but then that test
juts proves my worst
thoughts- I am complete-
ly ill; because, like a clown,
I am always laughing.
A lunatic in sheeps clothing,
and yet, my insides
still ache with deteration.
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