The invective is defective,
and you have no directive,
to guide you in your invective,
for you are apoplectic,
and eccentric,
and no one pays you no mind,
and no matter what you say,
which is mostly rambling nothingness,
it is always night when it is really day,
and when you wear a smile, you are sad,
and when you are happy you are mad,
and every day you rue the day,
for it bears you angry malice or so you say,
and from happiness you walk away,
and you shake your fists at the stars in the sky,
and the heavens,
and you shout at them and laugh,
for this world,
has never made sense to you,
and success of your life,
it has never been a part
and you play the fool,
for that is your best art,
but you are not light of heart,
and you scare away the dark,
and I see you staring at the sun,
taking the sun to task,
but it doesn't reply and I, I just laugh.