I am growing weary of this marquee.
Travelling in this circus from town to town,
I would find more acceptance under the sea,
I don't feel like I can truly be me.
I am growing weary of playing the clown
when I have lost my will to laugh or smile,
under this painted-smile façade I frown.
You laugh, unable to see that I'm down.
I am growing weary of feigning guile,
juggling knives that will one day be my demise.
I am growing weary of trial after trial
only to find a reaction hostile.
I am growing weary of this fool's disguise
which only attracts alienated eyes.
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