Laughing Stock

Was I really born just to be

Laughed at by society?

They sit up high looking nice and neat

As I blunder around on two left feet.

For every flaw that one might see

A thousand hands point and laugh at me.

Bleeding again as I struggle to stand,

Noone bothers to give a helping hand.

Forever afraid I might be catching,

They won't  be damned just by watching.

I was born purely to be,

The laughing stock of society.


The End

1 comment about this poem Feed