My mother’s a heroine, I maybe with the ugly hothead and I knew

I think I should rewrite me, 

I am sick of my dreams, 

The gray zone where I find myself perennially exiled

I am sick of being suspended loose.

Patient. 

Waiting. 

There is a painting in my head, a little gory 

if you allow me

Seriously, who the fuck are you to allow me?

Anyway, I said there’s a painting in my head

Of a face, with two unequal eyes

The side angle shots of a nose which is not congruent 

And lips whose half has been fleshed out by the stray dogs

So, you see, I am left with the other half whose bleeding

looks a little awry because 

the lower and upper lip do not coincide 

yet again

I do not know why I particularly

have to paint it. 

It do not befit me.

Then what does befit me? 

What is it that I feel? 

I am not satisfied with winning in defeat.

I know I have said that but I am a hypocrite so you may please excuse me.

I have written enough songs of innocence, enough of despair 

Oh good lord sorcery, I would want to rebel.

Have I had a penis,

I would have peed all over. 

I do not know where does it end. 

I mean the hurt

I do not intend to keep hate

Maybe run away, maybe behead 

But, all that’s certain is, 

I am not nice, I may have told you so

but I am a hypocrite

so you may please excuse me. 

I close my eyes 

And all of it does return 

I open them and I see love all over 

Also, there is one thing 

I am tired of proving,

Proving.

Didn’t I come to your door 

Naked with no armory,

Fucked up but acted sane 

So this time whether you 

take a stand or not

The earth’s already weary

And it is not stopping before a quake.