I have no one

But I have my book,
and I grab my book as I sleep

For it is the one being I love with, 
and the one being that lies with grace

The qualities I strive for lies within the book, 
the satisfaction for what it is

It leans on my lower shoulder,
Without moulds it sinks into the crevices

It doesn’t give back for like me,
It believes it is incapable

Yet why does my book feed me when I am hungry,
even I am ravenous and doesn’t contemplate

So who comes close shall not waver at the sight,
For knowing they will never come close

To how we love.

My room is red and blue 
Underneath is where I dwell 
Proclamations of sin ensue 
Bargaining the broken gates of hell 

Somewhere in this eternal life 
My mother’s sanctuary is frail 
Whereupon moments are broken through strife 
My fathers pain blossoms from rage

To have the origin of sorrow 
At your doorstep means to conceive an end
Though this end may not be tomorrow yet
Today, I shan’t be your friend

I want to leave for London in a car that tramples the sunken roads,
But the arrogance of this place is always stronger than the will to keep convention, 
Where their lives are propped up in bronze coated frames,
But quickly I shall impale the corners, starting with the holes of the house.

But this place is confused and left to entrap it’s own young,
And having own sons tainted so you put up walls to keep your sainthood,
Since he’s losing it and drinking again which can’t be seen by the friends,
At last this shall all be our story, 
Coming up with even more obscenities! 


Come on it can’t be held together,
It can’t be helped either,
It can’t be that perfect show,
Where the arm extends far further than it should for her,
It doesn’t tell you how far it goes,
It doesn’t tell what it’ll achieve,
Come on she knows don’t tell her again,

Watching this shrink infatuate
something, a fetish,
Beyond even the most taboo the family
Breaks 
Leaving him and her to suffocate within their own walls,
Thriving yet completely truthfully dying,
Being a saint engages in pride, 
again, 
indulging in fallacy.


But I am happy,
For I know in London I can’t be touched for I shall sever the fingers and 
Suckle the blood, 
Away from the heat.
The complete heat
The absolute sweltering
And
The ultimate saints.

I will not waste my youth
For wasting youth is selfish.
Ethereal dreams are the only source for
some of us,
Since wasting while young is our ultimate
act.

Our ultimate act dies,
And our youth leaves us.
These false hazy summers are so
desirable yet so far,
Polaroid evidence captures them to be the
ultimate fallacy.

Over false tales of boats on water,
This age cannot live a song.
The cigarette shall burn a hole in your
longing lie of a heart,
And how does this picture live outside where
the world is too cruel.

For me the world is too cruel to answer to,
Acting upon our land but hers.
Our mother’s mother earth presents the
sky each morning,
When to only have the true ones isolated,
in deep sorrow and mourning.

I need you to scar with your most true hate,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to carve flames fiercer than my regret,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to produce gashes as figures of sincerity,
                                                                       into my face.

I need you to be afraid of my body -
                                                                       the deformities you caused to terrify you.

I need you to erase your being - to scatter your ruins,
                                                                       down my throat.

For future imitations,
                 I need you to be present.

For future imitations,
                 The true ones will scorn you.


The true ones will never get through,


You need to be held.
                  You need never be forgiven.