I’m feeling the most grim

even though I’m now trim.

I worked my ass off,

literally fat ass weight came off.

From people I feel no affection.

All I feel is defection.

Why the fuck am I rhyming?

It’s not like it’s ever good timing.

Why do people insist I live

when they don’t want the things I give.

Life’s bad with lots of trouble.

I’m sad with mood that don’t uphold.

To me, people are so unappreciative.

Or maybe I’m not taking enough initiative.

Whether the problem lies outward or inward,

matter not because either way I’ve been hurt.

Would I be strong to endure the pain?

Or just a dumb dong with nothing to gain.

There’s nothing left for me to enjoy.

No wish, no dream, no toy.

Well, I do want love: unconditional.

Though that term’s definition: null.

Conditions exist, however inane,

like for me not to be insane.

But that kind of love cannot be attained

because my motivation has been detained.

I am but a speck in a population.

No one to seek me for interrelation.

To stand out,

without a doubt,

I would need to bullshit and pretend

like people with full shit in their hand.

Their gestures seem gracious and appealing.

like desk chairs that are spacious with soft filling.

But over time the truth will come out.

Things wear out and smell like trout.

Half these rhymes might make no sense.

That’s a sign I might be dense.

Dating, falsely charming, I will not participate.

Decaying, slowly dying, I have to anticipate.

I want people who wants me to be there.

Otherwise, suicide prevention is not fair.

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