In the script of life's stage, I'm the jest, A punchline scrawled by hands unsure, distressed. Dangling on the margins, on edges I tread, Existence penned in a comedy where sadness is fed.

Unsteady hands sketch this bleak refrain, My role, a punchline in life's mocking domain. Hanging on the precipice, teetering near, Each scene etched with a shadow, a tear.

Pages turn, yet my lines remain the same, A tragicomedy, a soul steeped in shame. In this tale, laughter echoes, piercing and loud, My existence, a joke, lost in a sorrowful shroud.