This I write
A confession in white
A piss on a statue I sight
As a perfect self, with might
And bravery and all I have little
It belittles
Me rattling it giggles
At I see it as I close
And opens a perfect grin, like model pose
I want to hold but pricks me like thorny rose
I love to pick
The thorns stick
With vigor and longing like wick
Of candles, I think I'm sick
Not sick
Like death visits
I'm sick with thought persist
Into my personal dreams I resist
To say to any person even me
Amidst
All the voices I hide the real me...