The Drowning of a ClownThe clouds are crying like clowns on gas station walls; their tears wane a melancholy tune on my window pane, and my heart drains each time the pitter-patter ceases to shatter the tearcycles hanging just below the windows to my soul. The gas station windows are frosty
I’m ready to go outside again,
I’m ready to shatter the icy daggers
I’m ready to drown
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