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I’m bound to a bowl of rusted paint.
		Why don’t they relate to my disabled state?
		Is it the way I row the boat?
		Or is it the way I carry cows and goats?
		I will faint,
		And they will pray.
		But someday…I’ll say,
		I won’t duck into their pepper spray.
		Cauce, I know the way to Heaven’s gate.
		I’m stuck in a fate that keeps my feet astray. 
		They pluck the thing crawling in the bones of my poster.
		She mourns when they make her eat corn.
		Torn into a storm
		A storm that rips apart the norms.
		Worms buzz,
		And women fuss
		But I’ll still debate the other gate.
		They will pray she will stay.
		Then everything will turn gray.
		Yet eventually the sun will spray across the globe so that every broken hoe will feel releveled by the glow.
		They’ll yell,
		Go to hell.
		Death breaths on the weak so go ring the bell.
		They’ll save you from hell,
		But they won’t make you well.
		The rhyme doesn’t make you dwell
		Yet it will still make you unwell. 
		Everything you have to gain.
		Is the thing that caused you pain.
		Every shirt you own has its own personal stain.
		You watch as their dreams go down the drain.
		I’d be swallowing all the pity until it turned into sympathy.
		Stars are swinging their legs and singing to the symphony.
		But moons are rounded their way to an epiphany.
		I have found peace within the industry.
		Sometimes everyone thinks differently.
		But I still stick with simplicity.

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