Cursed Poem by (TPAC) Alexander Coppedge

It seems to me that out of a zillion people I'm picked to suffer, pulling a little back on this projected doom; thinking none can do damage to me, but God: being flushed down as waste.

Beliefs that are actually factual, not yet seen, watching out for things out of the dark ready to jump upon me; ask myself does it really matter: find my mind lost dwelling in the state of dark walls.

I'm found confounded, without opinion, yielding no guarantee of a solution, having no actual fact: lost in this fog vivid deep emptiness that touches my feelings.

I've been targeted out the gate, selected as the number one to be eliminated from my given game of life: wanting no exchanges between me and them, as if I did not exist.

Perhaps, outside of feeling alone, I'm not the only one selected in this reality, seeing that very few of us are able to escape: set tormented placements hell unfolding defined reality for each detailing everyone.