It's sunny out, despite
my face,
despite the waste.
Land of misery and
twisted fate,
that is my skin from
eye to chin.
Face, a salted ground.
Misery!
Pain that anyone could
see,
despite the sun and
warm spring breeze,
despite the flowers and
bumblebees.
Warm to touch but cold
within,
That's the wasted land
my heart dwells in.
Bright and quick my
smile might be,
but it's lying like the
rest of me,
In the waste land of my
life.
A grave filled with
sunlight –
covered in flowers,
adorned with grass.
A place to share a
picnic.
But underneath that
skin and bone, that pretty face, and happy home
lies a dark and lonely
place.
A land of emptiness and
waste.
A private hell that
no-one sees,
built by devils and
fantasies.
Of angels,
hopes, and endless
need.
Which never grow
outside the skin,
or see the light, or
let it in.
And never will.
And never will.
For nothing grows in
misery.
A wasted land
A land of waste
Final resting place.
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