Why are many messes made?

To form the feelings of frustration?

To hold the handle of hostility,

or loath the love of life?

Why do we complicate ourselves?

To halt the forward motion?

To fault our toward emotions,

or vault our coward notions?

Inside us all rears an ugly demeanor,

Telling us to lead astray.

Inside us all resides pretty laughter,

Pushing our demeanor away.

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