They ask me what’s wrong.
They can’t understand.
So they just ask me to join their throng.
My life is like the hand
that is being whipped.
Or the drummer without his band.
My focus is chipped.
And like a windshield of a car.
It needs to be fixed.
You now you seem so far
away that
your words no longer scar.
You yet to understand.
The problems of life are crammed.
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