I was born a terrible mess Twisted in the womb I was posed for death In preparation for my future, My reverse Midas touch, I turned everything to rust. I was a terrorist, My family; My victims. They chose to love me; I chose to attack. Deported, disowned; The little black sheep Drove up the state; keep me Away. Nightmares were abysmal, Kept me twisting In the night. My youth didn’t receive me, It kept me a hostage.
I made a friend, she kept shards Of perfection in her pocket, Took them out now and then To cut herself We became an Empire, Or rather a whirlwind, A swirling, spinning vortex Of incomprehensible fear. A projection of our hatred Of whom we had become, We suffered, Endless, midnight phone calls. Then I was a rain cloud I stared at the ground Until I wandered into traffic Hoping to end my pitiful existence. I was saved by a Good Samaritan; She concerned herself with my Feeble attempts at death.
I’ve been like the wind, I’m always moving; Still invisible, Still bitter. I’ve become a starving artist. I’ve rejected the water and bread So they force fed me tar and The battlefield blood of men
My tears are ink, They flow onto pages And form angry words They spell out my story, From alpha to end. They say I will die an awful mess, Twisted in the tomb, I’ll be posed for death.
Ariel Scary[L] · Tue Feb 27, 2007 @ 06:55pm · 0 Comments |