We grow up thinking that our parents are infallible, and then we realise that we are the biggest mistake of our parents.

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As a man I was, I ask the man I am, to ask the man I that I could be, Why does he live in anonymity.
As I man who talks, I ask the man who listens, to ask the man who thinks, why is our mind a mystery.
As a man I could, I ask the man I should, to ask the man that I will never be, is he real or imaginary.
As a man in pain, I ask the man ashamed, to ask the man with the name, he wouldn't forget us would he.

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A man who lives without meaning lives the best possible life. For he exists to be and not to become.

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Down, In the darkness of depth, I met a man with no arms and legs.
Deep, in the shadow of a well, I met a man that didn't want my help.
These men, they cook their flesh and eat their self.
These men, they have no eyes to see nor a body to be.
In the depth of darkness I met these men who cooked my eyes and made me them

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On a distant shore of shame, I think of a man that does not have my name.
On a ray of distant light, I see this man happy in his eyes.
On a distant night of peace, I dream of this man smiling at me.
On the distant day of past, when I am standing on the door of death at last.
I hope to meet this man beyond my distant dreams.

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She lives in the sea of shame.
She breathes in the ire of pain.
Every breadth of her flesh soars through my veins.
Every tinge of her touch bleeds through my shame.
If I could touch the disgust once again, I would swim through the torrent of disdain, to touch the softness of vain and look into the eyes of pain.

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I cannot cry anymore in the arms of wind.
The eyes of the moon seem dreadfully dim.
The sun has doused my eyes in red.
The boy inside me has long been dead.
Man lives in mourning of this boy.
With his eyes drained and tongue-tied he looks for the right place in death to count his sighs.
But the day isn't dead the old man is still left he looks at these boys of dread and smiles a smile that can only be wept.

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I am happy when I am sad.

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Like lard of lather, I was floating through life bleeding on the precipice.
Like a shard of glass, I stood in my shine waiting to puncture anything that smiled.

In the locks of your night, I found sleep away from my lies and disbelief.
In the strand of your smile, I could finally weep you'd never call me a disease.

In the shadow of your chorus, I wasn't prickled by stares or mauled by disgrace.
Even now in the lair of your wreath, I can stop the screams and slowly breathe.

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I miss the walls of shame the floor of unruly desires and the sight of disdain.

I rue this ire of peace the smoke of silence and the streets of sleep.

I miss the sanctity of pain the warmth of tears and the violence of vain.

I rue this quiet place I know it can hear my thoughts it knows that I am a disgrace but it still wants to keep me alive to keep me safe.

I miss my house of hate where I was treated as human waste.

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