You people don't appreciate me enough.
I mean my very presence should be a welcomed blessing
in the midst of your pathetic lives,
and my unmistakable genius.
Whilst I am forced into such close proximity to your kind,
who couldn't ever measure up to these high standards of mine.

You mock me and speak harshly of me.
But now it is a fact that indeed you are all just jealous and hateful,
strongly wishing you were the meticulous being that I am.
All my charitable deeds go to waste and so what more can I say?
I am perfection and therefore, man must dislike what they can not have.

Yet, as it is, I can still walk with an air of grace and dignity,
my head quite high
A true sign of an individual worthy of much acknowledgement.

These people, I do not know.
I only see them in my dreams.
I only see them when I close my eyes.
Only when it seems
like I am dying again.

I can never make out their ghastly faces;
they have no eyes or nose or mouth.
All I hear are silent voices
that seem to come from nowhere
but inside my head.

She's the girl with the cherry red lipstick,
the full ******* and rounded hips.
They call her sweet ******;
pretty little ******.

You'll know when you see her.
She'll answer you with, yes sir.
But don't look into those lovely eyes;
they will hypnotize; entice.

And her tongue is sugar coated
with sly and tempting lies.
They draw you near and nearer
every time she licks her lips.

She captures the young men's hearts,
with her seductive youth.
She feeds on their lustful stares;
their male hormones, testosterones.

Their jealous girlfriends
give her the strength
to make it through the days;
to ignore the painful shame.

But every lonely night she cries
herself to sleep,
and prays to the heavens
to retrieve her innocence.

They call her sweet ******,
pretty little ******.
But I know her well as Sorrowful,
and pretty with a grieving heart.

I
Suddenly, I'm nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler,
and we were blind to the evil that dwelt amongst its thrushes
where we played.
We coloured its black and white pages
with crayons,
and placed them somewhat carelessly
into the folders of our memories.
Now we constantly search for them,
and the joy that was once ours.

II
The dark was my sworn enemy,
but now I embrace it with open arms.
Curiosity was once my dear friend,
now I've all the answers I never wanted.
Questions continue to bloom
in my garden of knowledge
and I let them die.
Afraid to know the truths,
I would rather nourish the lies
I have planted.

III
Suddenly I am nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler;
when I could admire the roses,
without glancing at their threatening thorns;
when I could freely laugh,
and not feel the tears behind my eyes;
when I could dream my whole world up,
and not fear it will come crashing down.
Ignorance was really bliss,
and freedom, never my wish.

Take to me the edge,
That god-forsaken edge;
So I can see where darkness thrives,
And light begins to end.

Take me to that place,
Of frightening solitude;
Where people give their lives away,
And end their pain for good.

Let me have a glance at death,
While clinging on to life.
And I'll dance on that fateful edge,
With all my ache and strife.

And this is a tragedy;
To lose oneself in the throng of life;
for one's light to die and become the darkness;
To forget one's dreams and become the hopeless;
To live a life where you're dead already.

Oh, should I have a dress made of sunlight,
Embellished with dewdrops from heaven;
And a crown on my head full of stardust,
From stars that will dance on my head top.

The morning shall curtsy to me,
I, the maiden of light.
The sky will acknowledge my presence.
The earth will rejoice with the heavens.

Oh, should I have a dress made of sunlight
and the stars atop my head,
I could gnash my teeth at darkness,
and darkness will run and hide.