I don't lie to poems,
except when I lie to myself.
I don't lie to myself
except my sanity is at stake.

Some people blame it on pride but I don't need pride to ignore what I don't care about.
That I don't judge your wrongs doesn't mean am on your side.

Ever conscious of my flaws so can't embrace yours. I'm adult.
The only adult shit I do is pretend not to be a child. I'm kid.

I love. But have an alien way of demonstrating.
Virgin? Obsessed? Been there, done it.

I'm 15 marks away from passing Bleep-boy audition.
I'm decent. Then loose. Then in another space where both don't exist.

I've got brand names who will Bleep me for free. But feeling good isn't my thing.
I get orgasm from being intimidated by a friend's success. Or mine.

Ask my mum, she knows more about me but not the details.
As a tailor, she tried fixing me. Now she's a nurse and the story continues.

I can easily make tears drop but the real skill is keeping too many hurts on my conscience.
You can't create what I create cause you don't feel what I feel. Guess you settle for plagiarizing.

My heart is prison for explosive emotion. Only Miss Art can confuse them for beauty.
I stay creative to feel alive.

Sometimes, I harbour breast thoughts and pussy intentions. But they are mostly self-induced.
Nonesense is my therapy.

Change is constant. But I doubt it cause new girl friends saying what old girlfriends once said.
Depression is still my longest serving boo.

How do I differentiate me from the poet? Cause sometimes I want to give these ladies their lover and be alone.
Alone is the death and strength of me.

I'm one of those people who wants to die in their creating room.
I'm one of those people who skip death after writing stuff like this.

- Light Mark

thumbs up, bro