There are red storms inside me;
All these, in a drained solitude.
Pains, need not exceed to feel;
but even to breathe, I feel ill.

There was a child, there were stars--
yet I have not yet been born.
What might they expect from me;
When what they see is just sanity.

Normalcy, which I think absurd
That they condemn me as awkward;
I do not conform to their scars,
They do not dear me in their hearts.

Mornings are hard, and afternoons;
that I feel home at lonely nights.
Their mighty skies are unjust to me,
They ruptured my arts, my poetry.

Nights are home to my lullabies;
Unheard songs, unspoken colours.
My pride, which paints and writes no more
Hath never felt loved before.

These scars, that once threw me
Continue their flamboyant dance.
The London streets are no longer;
I have been left in here, forever.

These holes, that have corrupted me
Craving for my souls inside out;
I am not loved, not a beloved
Life has had of my love enough.

The swarming moon, and lilac sky
Shall mean no more when I die;
All around me is commonness,
No madness, no rains, no happiness.

The sheltered sun and dire summer
May they thrive in their jolly days;
May love bloom again when I leave,
and when I’m gone, shall still it live.