A slow witted dunce,
In manner of speech,
In fervor and charm,
A dark broody geek,
A traumatized lad,
With scars on his skin,
A wrecked emo bard,
That’s tall, dark, and lean,
A one call cuckoo clock,
With doors always shut,
A half strungen
hammock,
Unused in the dust,
A lonesome conservative,
With walls for a heart,
He lives life in motions,
In thrice cutted
reels,
He folds hands and bleeds deep,
In caverns and dungeons,
And opts not to let loose,
His thrice stricken soft heart
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