Fix

It gets peculiar when you are exposed foolish doesn’t it?

Misguided attempt betrays you at doing,

Conscience level sinking, you thought you had it

Rushed attempts to quell the cool.

 

The disgusting meal of your own uppish dribble

Foul taste of justification sets makes it triple,

Guises of interpreting expectation

peppered the wound with traverse lamentation.

 

Ego comes in, it shields the gather.

People come down, they say “it don’t matter”.

You still feel your burn, fix your face in the plaster.

The cut down is repeated

So, it’s obviously mastered.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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