I.

A balloon is meant
to bring joy
Generate superficial laughter
To these hopeless children
Without shoes, whose feet have blisters
No sufficient amount of glue
or red tape to omit the truth
In my recovery, an haircut at the nearest saloon
impending doom; a blast, a disaster
short lived misdirection. Chemical reaction
This swollen face of yours
Sunken sleepless eyes
This scars that would (not) heal
Regardless of my caresses, kisses
Licked I be, dammed for trying
to correct seeing you would never be
able to forget, the horrors, of birth
In my recovery
each death a statistic, in order to be, free
from general judgement; an title, an opinion
futile as only fancy should had ever been

A looking glass, a peeping tom, May.
May, a wholesome month
felt longer too, been close to an year
Since I last drew
Pictures of my soul, blank
tasteless wimps crawl and die
at that beach of my deceive
My pity is cheap
See, already broken
Invest in quality my friend.
The good died young,
guess who remained.