People made me feel so empty
People made me feel so lost

People made me feel ugly
They filled me with self hate

And now I cry when I hear a song on the radio
That reminds me of the love that I lost long ago

And now I cry when I see friends holding hands
Reminding me of the ones I have loved and lost

I have never felt like I belonged anywhere
People called me names and pushed me away
Made me feel like I was to blame...

I have never felt any true love
Neither physical or emotional

No one ever made me feel fine
No one ever made me feel like
I had someone to call my own
No one ever truly stayed here
So now I drown my sorrows in
My tears that I've been savin'
Here

As he looked into her eyes
his hand crept across her chin,
He tried to emphasize the scent that
lingered on her skin.

fresh cut wood and faded dreams,
Rich red wine and nicotine.
If looks could ****, and hers they would,
He'd lose the ground on which he stood.

But dreams sprout wings and off they flew,
Off to the place where dandelions grew.
He'd take her hand and off they'd go,
Off to the place where only they know.
And their eyes locked tight,

this moment they'd miss,
As they shared one final midnights kiss.

Sag my corpse
in 32 degree weather
through the city of God
where paraplegics dream of running.
“Oh Rhodesian mercenary,”
humble my soul again
like in C(hi)(ca)ongo.
But remember
The revolution starts
on my mama’s bed
at half past six.

So excuse me while I smoke my drink like a Brooklyn Leftist from the 40’s tramples
burning cigarettes on cold pavements where codeine and Sprite
make any Tuesday fabulous because we already suffered from (and for) the goods of mankind.
But before you read me the history of Hatchepsut;
I learned the art of man within the confines of FCC regulations after my ‘Pa threw ******* out the window and made life in the cell not mundane by telephoning philosophical-entendres    
that tomorrow never happened.

He too was from the blood of the ancestors whose bodies were charred on as goods—
whose children now char their bodies with the goods of the goddess of Victory—
the official trademark for the lost Exodus—the blood and blue moribund—
sagging pyrrhic victories in 32 degree weather as homage to their charred ghost (fore)fathers
who preyed to the city of God for bread