The soup of my soul, drips from my eyes,
As the sweet-fruit candyfloss that grows between her thighs,
Sugar I can’t have, a life without worth,
The comfort of depression, my heart drawn forth.

The entrails of my self, drag on the ground,
Gathering filth with every step, with a strange slosh-slosh sound,
An empty glass that held hope, a mind without fear,
Cut off in mid-sentence, like Van Gogh’s dead ear.

The angry circling of any caged beast,
Restless inside, to say the least,
There is nothing more that can pull me apart,
For the first was the last, she had taken my heart.

I wonder, not for the very first time,
Why the thunder of life-joy is no longer there,
And the luck that flows through me, like ice,
Carries not the feeling of comfort that once lived inside.

For there is nothing more that I can do for my Self,
That stranger to me that lives deep within,
Only calling out to pull the rest down,
Under again I go, but never to drown.

Sarcasm from the mind just won’t let me rest,
No comfort to be drawn from any soft breast,
The pure poetic justice of life’s empty fight,
The silence that wraps around with effortless might.

There are no winners in this eternal war,
No severed heads, nor blood on the floor,
There can be no more truth, for truth is truly dead,
The 20/20 vision of pure sight is simply a lance in my head.

Nauseous knowledge, forgotten feelings,
Nothing to watch but cracked white ceilings,
Counting the distance between my Self and the Empty,
Realising they are one and the same in the end, that I will never be my own best friend.

Funny this empty repetitive shit,
For all the emotion it holds init?
What I would give for one small glimpse,
A taste of the life full of love, happy, warm thoughts and feelings,

Again…nothing to look at but cracked white ceilings.