Supposing Protocol

this life and all of her perfection issues. the hair and plastic smile, are all things i can never conform to,
though that is the function of things, you fake happy, you are happy, you show your core, you’re shunned
this world can never hope to understand true pain, any sign of the stuff, and everyting turns upside down.
these manniquins walking down the street, i can not blend in with them. and they know. though they move not
they judge, and they seek out punishment for all those who stand out, until they are driven to do the unthinkable.
that is the function of things. conform or die, there is no other option, and though every twitch of the muscle
aches and shakes my very core, i must do so, these barbie doll eyes and hips will move only the way social protocal
bekons me too, nevermore shall i let anyone close enough to know that this being is actually alive, nevermore…