we’re like joker and harley,
love cannot be seen
my world is dropping in the city
and i am feeling dizzy
well, this is the agony
of being your queen
no matter how toxic this is,
you are still my weakness
can’t stop loving my puddin
though i’m the only one who’s vibin
and i know
i am now weaker
than i’ve become.

If my life is ruined
I fought like a winner
Every time I fell
I laughed again after crying
I didn't frown or get upset
If I'm good, it makes others uglier
I am like a free bird
Because instead of retaliating
I forgave
Mohamadreza Baseri

"You better make that Candy Bar Last"
It's hard for a broken back to enjoy
"His next stand"
without a prop to help hold him
up from falling
in "Chernobyl's Black Hole"
as his counterpart hovers in safety
watching another drown. "What planet are you? Far?"
Miles pledge the marks
Until the quiet fades
And Mr. Hyde Tries to fight you
The Wicked Joker reigns "supreme"
as you fight past A Waking Nightmare
Not a "Wizard " in "past Kansas"
Your soul flies far away
As your waking body receives their torture
As the body shivers and then ages
Fire burns remembrance
As it's ashes marks the lost pages
from your past
The smoke poofs into explosive shell rains
Smile
You are now in a movie
Fighting a forced "in class."

Life is just a joke,
And if you take it too seriously,
The joke is on you.

have a look:

the [a-ha-ha-ha] platform is packed with
commuters
dressed in
occupational colors  

the commuters are not used
to smile regularly by the end
of a long day

[a-ha-ha-ha-aaa]

therefore
have a closer look:

between the commuters you
see
loosely
some guys carrying
transparent [hr-ha-a] chunks filled with
*****

somebody asks
about the fluid

now people have a
reason to laugh

hr-ahem-hrr-ahem-hrrr-i-don't-ha-want-ha-ha-ha-that

The clown keeps a journal filled with his suicidal thoughts;
His face wet with paint and his hair soaked in dye,
he laughs to himself as he reads the words scribbled across the pages.
They crescendo like the build up of a joke -
splashes of ink blots suggest that his pen blew up before the punch-line.

He remembers a time when the earth was grey;
the morning dew seeped into everyone’s socks
and they walked around with heavy feet,
indifferent to the man beside him
walking on the bare flesh of his toes.
Then a stream of water dribbled out from the prank flower on his chest.

In a world so addicted to tragedy,
comedy is sublime,
like the nicotine rush from a cigarette.

Yet laughter is a bond so easily broken.
The white on his face can wipe away,
the lipstick can smear,
and the dye can fade.
But beneath all of that is a smile,
a smile that persists
because nothing is wrong
when the clowns come out.