Should I describe myself to you?
With words that burn and bubble blue?
Should I tell you too?
That the words inside me are hellfire truths?
That my hair, my skin, my bones, my tooth,
Are irrevocable rotten proofs?
Maybe I should but what's the use?
Burning and bloated in scornful youth.
Between my brain and my heart is tentative truce.
And maybe there's nothing left to really lose,
This inescapable, ineffective ruse,
This high top building I have to choose,
And hiding from my deathly black humor muse,
I don't think I really have anything left to prove.