i have nothing
for i am lost in this downward spiral of a ****** up universe
alone but not really a loner
picking up the pieces of a broken stature trying to re enact my yesteryears of pure sonder
a sudden realisation that I am
(We are)
going fast approaching our own demise

what she misses the most about her teenage years was her midnight walk down the neighbourhood alone, not heading anyway in particular, shivering due to the bitter coldness. she roams & wander aimlessly, unbeknown to her dysfunctional family. she was an idle teen lonely a misfit a freak. she wasn't sneaking out to attend a rave or parties & it was unlikely that she would get invited either. gun sitting under her petticoat, just in case she needed to use it. the world was /& is a pretty ****** up place she didn't want to end up dead in a drain gang ***** by chavs either. other people would eye her suspiciously if anyone spotted her. she would ignore them, an idle teen she was. some even offered her money in return for ****** favours but she kindly turned them down, insisting that she was "not that kind of girl". sometimes she wonder if she really took off will her parents even care? she would sleep on playgrounds, lying awake staring at constellations plane talking to god, asking whether she should run away & leave everything behind. she longs to inhale the icy cold air that at 3.35 a.m that sets her heart on fire but at the same time triggers a logical part of her grey matter that she should head home. sometimes she wishes that she would ignore her brain signals & leave town

i've always have this mental image  of ancient poets
Homer, Shakespeare, Rumi
kneeling on the ground sacrificing young virgins drawing the bloods of their **** in vials.
writing prose poems ode & what not using haemoglobin as inks. sweet red liquid oozing from felt tip drawing letters & aksara on papyrus sheets, producing masterpieces in the form of poems that we worship.

staring at her face was the only remedy i needed to cure my sadness and deprived soul

no longer i yearn for other things
i have came attached
to an angel in disguise sent from the 7th paradise

letters i wrote to her
tattered but not torn those yesteryears of collecting photographs of her
she was my Monroe

bit by bit I detached the petals from its thorny stalk
she loves me she loves me not
is a question that i will never obtain a concrete answer

i walked away from her grave with a sense of reluctance
because i knew
under those 6ft of soil & dirt
she beckons me to join her
my Matilda
that day will come