his name is but a potter's whim
short and sharp, but rather dim
he weaves cotton stories with his eyes
and buried in his heart, darkness lies
his friends don't see the mannequin falling
only his smile, upon his face it's crawling
and here he lies in the grave
a soul so valued, a collector's fave
YOU ARE READING
What's Wrong
Poetrysome of these might not make sense but trust me neither does my mind
