The Cruel Cookie Cutter

You can't write a song or a poemwithout being a slave to its formIt is no longer an outlet like it used to beIt is just a place to copy the people who used it as an outletOr to challenge themBut nevertheless not just simply for expressing what is inside you
What is inside meare visions of mocking facesturned backsUpturned nosesShunning
I am the idiotThat is my archetypeI guess that would mean I act as a comic relief deviceExcept I'm not very funnyAnd I don't find it funny that people laugh atsomeone struggling sizzling swerving crashing into the waves of misfortuneThat didn't make senseSo now people will discount my poemBecause it doesn't make senseIt doesn't follow the fucking rulesAnd it doesn't make sense of not making senseEveryone must draw within the linesMove within the cookie cutterFill it
Soon they'll be discussing meGossipingI'll never work with them againBecause I didn't do the workOh, could any words be more cruel?But it's trueI deserve pain, death for betraying them soBut I did try to do itOh how I wanted to give a good first impressionBut I didn't prepare ahead of timeI didn't manage my timeSuch violent words
Blunt, yet sharp
 
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