Cursed Poem by (TPAC) Alexander Coppedge

It seems to me out of a zillion I'm picked to suffer; pulling back none that can do damage: flushed down as waste.

Beliefs not yet seen, hanging about ready to jump upon me; asking myself does it really matter: finding my mind lost dwelling in the state of dark walls.

I'm found, without opinion, holding no guaranteed solution, or any actual fact: this vivid emptiness that touches my feelings.

I'm targeted out the gate, positioned number one to eliminate from the game of life: wanting no exchanges between, as if I did not exist.

Perhaps I'm not the only one selected in this reality, seeing that few of us to escape: set placements defined for each detailing everyone.