Talking to myself nothing odd, the wall has no answers per usual
The bystanders react adversely to my condition shrugs with “whatever it’s your funeral”
Most the time it’s clear that nobody cares for damn real
But when I cease to exist, so will all this, I’m Claire Stanfield
The world is just a figment of my mind, consular told me anxiety is God given
Well he must envision me being his personal sitcom with all this odd livin
Transfer my existence from memory card into the internet’s lost system
I’m already so forced so I’ll forever live on as a Sinacog written
Truman show, losin hope misconstrued tied to the noose of a rope
I’m a circus lion, once instinct driven now forced to jump through gold hoops as a joke
Saturday morning/sadder day mourning thoughts
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