Lily Willie, I am hungry
Do you have a cup of coffee--
A glass of milk, a butter cookie
Or a chocolate-dipped strawberry?

Lily Willie, I feel queasy,
But burgers are too greasy,
And pizzas are too cheesy
How about macaroni?

*Lily Willie, are you silly?
It's just a bite, a little candy
A slice of cake, nothing fancy
My head is numb, vision's hazy

I feel cold, but it's not snowy
My lips are purple, fingers chilly
My eyes are empty, so is my tummy
Lily Willie, I feel hungry.

Live like an unappreciated stranger
in your own house.

Become the careless talk at family dinners
about the disappointing child
and pretend like it was all a joke
and slowly lose yourself with every
echo of drunken laughter.

Look into the eyes of someone you love
and realize how you can't feel anything
other than dread.

Become the lustful thoughts of someone
you can't love
and watch them cut themselves
into pieces for you, when
in the end
all you can say is a pitiful "thank you,
but I'd rather be a lonely wreck
drifting across the sea."

Ask yourself to be found
in a map with no direction
and with nothing but your
faulty heart to guide you away
from home.

Pretend like the music
disappears into the background
of the screenplay your life has become
and the screen slowly turning black.

Find the dread
in your own heartbeat.

Take off your clothes
and see how you sewed every misgiving
into your skin like a story you
never want forgotten
and marvel at how bad your stitching is-
can't even hold yourself together.

Hear the sound of the rain
and wonder why
the grey clouds of your heart
never go away with the same.

I have sought answers to the query what makes a person perfectly sightly, yet have not I found it.

Is it in the curl of his hair, or the warmth in her stare?
The touch of her skin as she lays bare?

Or is it in the hue of his eyes - deep sea blue? Or the beating of her heart, as if on cue?

Is it in the lines of his jaw, or that perfectly white teeth? The blush on her cheeks or the rise of her chest as she breathes?

I know not if it is in the grace of her gait, nor if it is her weight. Or his broad shoulders or the size of his feet.

Is it in the lobes of his ear? Or her view in rear? Is it in the curves of her waist, or his abdomenals like hills? The complexion of his arms? Or her hug that warms?

Is beauty in the arch of her back or the contour of her *******? Or his suit and tie and his Sunday's best?

Does it have anything to do with the fragrance he wears - warm and woody? Or is it in her pair of sneakers and a hoodie?

Can it be found in the protrusion of her clavicles or the density of his brows? Or in the depth of his voice? The color of her toes?

Is it in the ball that he plays or the gentleness of her face? Ah! How can someone be so angelic in demeanor?

     It isn't clear to me if splendor in countenance can really be found. Should not it rather be felt? Or should it be perceived through sight?

     One is beautiful because people say she is. But beauty could be forfeited at the thought of the beholder that she isn't.

     Does one tell himself that he is as Adonis in loveliness when he looks in the mirror? Or does he say he is like Hephaestus in visage?

     Is beauty defined in the standard: dark hair, appealing stare;
aligned teeth, sharp nose;
tan skin, shaved brows;
waxed legs, hefty breast;
mild touch, sweet caress;
cheeks sans freckles, six feet tall;
flamboyant voice, and foxy lips?
What about molls and vagrant rips?

     To say one is grotesque - is not it just in your perspective? And to say one is gorgeous - what is your basis?

Is it her beautiful locks? --but she is a ****--
Or the emerald windows of his soul? --but he is a criminal--
Does beauty still nest on them?

     I say the efficacy to arouse fascination is not found in the facade of a person, rather found somewhere more profound.

     To put beauty in the way that it is in the eyes of the beholder is quite narcissistic, but let people fancy you not for the sightliness of your face, but the goodness of your soul, though it is heir to sin; the mercy in your eyes, not its color; the care in your touch, not its balminess. Because the only thing that is undying and immortal is not your cast but the heart.

I can taste-- no, feel!--
The grease in my mouth
I've finished my meal
It didn't taste real.

I can feel-- no hear!--
The bellow of my arteries,
My gal bladder, my kidney--
Screaming in agony.

I can hear-- no, see!--
My stomach as it digest
The posion I've ingest'd
I say, it's killing me!

I can see-- no, smell!--
The nauseating smell of bane
It smells like oil, sugar, and salt--
Leaving stains in my vains.

I would've if I could've--
Stick a finger down my throat
If I could've I must've--
But I shouldn't!-- so I don't.

I am defiled not by smoke
Nor am I defiled with coke
But in every swallow-- a choke!
If I must die-- through stroke.

I want to gag,
Purge out every liter
I want to gag!--
Draw out melted butter.

Ew, I just ate fries
Ew, they're stomach lice
Ew, I hate my body--
Ew!-- magnificently.

Puke-- no! I feel disgusting
Puke-- no! I am disgusting
Grease, gah! Oh, please!
My lips want not your kiss.

"Why can't you love yourself?"

*"What's not to hate?"