Cursed (G) # 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 on this projected dome, thinking none of them can do damage: being flushed down as waste.

Beliefs as factual not yet seen or mere fiction, hanging about things 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, without opinion, holding no guarantee of a solution, or any actual fact: lost in this fog vivid emptiness that touches my feelings.

I've been targeted out the gate, positioned number one to be eliminated, from my given game of life: wanting no exchanges between me, 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 torment placements defined for each detailing everyone.