Cursed Poem by (TPAC) Alexander Coppedge

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

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

I'm found, without opinion, holding no guarantee of a solution, or any actual fact: lost in vivid emptiness that touches my feelings.

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

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