The Circus Clown

Making the same mistake over again,
Leaves me hardly any room to complain.
Admitted that I have wounds to relieve,
Self worth that never fails to deceive,
A hope that never seems to fall to defeat,
Or opposed needs that could ever meet
The passion, that raises an ironic head,
While intelligence leaves its bed.

I fall for a sweet word mumbled in dry tones,
Via uncaring lips or vacuous telephones;
I fall for a kind look and lovely hair,
I forget the rendering and the despair.

I fall to rise again like a circus clown
I just can’t seem to learn to stay down.
I fall.

It is like a roller coaster ride:
So filled with thrills I cannot deride.

Words are so beautifully spoken
I hear them despite them being broken.
But, though I’m tired of falling, I see it clear:
My fears, though numb, are almost dear,
As if that hope I had, now, has clawed deep
And being awakened shall never sleep.

In mistakes then, it shall seek a solace,
That never stays in one time or one place.
So on I blunder, and get held by warm lies,
And truth shall fail, no matter how it tries
To make sense of the world that is now mine,
That knows joy for rare, brief seconds of time.


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