I try to be poetic
This is hardly a gift
It's linguistic aesthetics
For emotional rifts

Humble are the poets
Who write with such skill
For they foster heroics
And cry with ther quills

Lethargy follows the facade
But I can no longer pretend.
This is how it has always been.
How it always will be.

I am a gypsy wanderer.
The only home
I have ever known
Is my body.
And I destroy it.
Those like me
Can never have a home.
So I fill my lungs
With cigarette smoke,
My skin with scars
And my blood with *****.

I remember,
my mother would often tell me
I am not alone.
I wonder is she feeding
the same lies
to my niece?
Oh mother,
please don't lie
to my baby girl,
tell her the truth,
tell her how alone she is.
Tell her,
that no one will be there for her,
that no one will save her,
unless she saves herself.
And, I know I am a disgrace to you,
but please tell her about her aunt,
the one who loved her more than she loved herself.
Tell her how much I loved her,
and teach her how to fight alone.
You ruined me,
but in the name of everything you love,
Save her.

You see,
i am not a singer.
I am a sinner.
I have no future
like a lady,
and my past is dodgy and shady,
at best.
Yet, you can rest.
Even though I am a liar,
i am not a murderer,
nor a thief.
Yes you will never know
where you stand with me,
but i could tell you.
But you never wanted that,
did you?
You hoped for a weekend with the slutty girl,
a week at most.
You never wanted to hold me at my worst,
only to admire me at my best.
Well, i pity you,
I pity you because you could not see the beauty
that my chaos is.