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For Every Freak, a Role.

I am afraid
it will be worse
than this, all without
the comfort of the familiar,

the illusion of security,
of control, offered
by the rigid predictability
of the habit patterns
I have called home
for so long.

Relax.
You’re never safe.
Time to face reality squarely,
adapt to actuality.

This cocoon of lies,
you know, has grown
so fucking suffocating.
You need to breathe.
You are poisoned,
so commence
with the bleeding.

How can I work
this out of me?
How do I find my glow,
cleanse and grow?

I feel so sick with insanity.
Can I make this change,
is it in me?

Am I unstable,
confused, frightened,
depressed and full
of so much fury?

Am I crazy?

Look around
before you judge
your deep self within,
open all three eyes
bloodshot, wide,
realize
that you live
in the loony bin.

All who
find themselves here
are, as a necessary perquisite
to joining this circus,
bags of mixed-nut
symptoms.

Every freak
has an act,
a role to play.

So what are you,
after all,
anyway?

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