Kowland Weiczyk
Why Is There Nothing Left? (HS)
Silly sullen silent self In the midst of confusion. My purpose on the bottom shelf, my expression though an illusion. Even more so than thee Do I hate this curse. Which causes me to hide Everything I must converse. Worse yet, I feel Is my mask less face which tries hard to conceal all I feel and chase. Something must be wrong with my mind. Searching all through me Nothing there I find. A baby to complain. A quitter to accept. Yet hard to explain Why there is nothing left.
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