I am but an injured soul, living in a dim lit broken home;
A cracked shell of gilded gold, a modern Ancient Rome.
What fight left have I, against the torrential tepid tide?
An ocean of fake sympathy, and false inflated pride?
Sweet nothings beckon me, with a void of rest and respite;
Whilst ****** fecund fingers fumble, heart clenched tight.
And when the cold rain pours itself a glass,
I'll count the hours as they pass;
Upon yet another lingering lonely night.

Sometimes I think I am the flaming star,
scorching any Icarus that flies too close;
I’ve wished I were dead on many occasions,
so that I may finally feel their hands on mine.
Quench my flames that bring me life,
drown me in my weighted sorrow;
So that you may kiss my cratered surface,
and freeze with me ‘til the ends of time.