Bus Misser.

I must’ve missed the bus for the class someone gave,

that instructed all of us how to communicate,

because no matter who,

it is I’m talking to,

no matter what I say or do,

there’s no soul in the stuff other people convey;

I seem to be stuck in the same Gods damned place,

a blood feud with Luck and a hit out on Fate,

epoxy stuck on my shoe sole,

paradoxy of the spiteful,

            a Hellish Life in a carnival,

            and I’ve smiled through a face of clown paint.