The minimum.
Shards of cynicism
we're born with.
A cut is a lesion
we close our eyes
it doesn't seem big
but it hurts much more.
Forty three cuts our body has
amongst thousands of little stings
our head denies it,
but the body can't stop the blood.
Funny and sad it will be,
cynics the world call us
when we slice our neck
and remain numb
I pressume lack of understanding
we may not know it
but our head is trying very hard
to go far and die with a smile.
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