A Bed Of Violins
One light, and one room..
no goon in the corner holding up the sound boom.
Nothing near a cartoon, & shit, this ain't a movie coming out soon.
This is my life fool.. now watch spectators entail it to be cruel,
cuz after you've hit the truth, their's fuck all that I can do.
.
Musta read a novel named "A Boy Called "It"?
cuz it fits - every notion I motion, with platinum perspectives
& detectives would never detect or erect the cruelty that injects
a blood so tainted in me, my type's filed below defects.
Its just a pre-tense, that Mr & Mrs Stevence little boy died at birth
yet he was raised in the dirt, a fable of Earth left to convert
a shame full of hurt into an anger that's best left in a curse.
Nothing knows what stepped in that hurse, only my "beloved" parents
my carers, who chose to be my very own pall barers.
But "you don't get it", right? Why would they lock me up in the night?
& leave me to become this hungry for love parasite?
.. Your guess is as good as mine.
.
At two timely intervals, my parents "fine principles" sit and stare
they tear up slices of bread on the stairs - with water - and leave'em there.
Like they ever care.. its just nourishment to keep this dead soul awake
Not knowing an evil home-pave, if they only saw where this hole lay..
they would pull me from this nightmare, where bile decorates..
my surroundings, and the poundings of endless rythm my heart makes-
carries shards of snow flakes from the frozen soul I chose to chase.
I'll never reach that race, and taste the outside worlds sympathy,
cuz the pain I endouvered, could write a "feel sorry" symphony.
The real thoughts envigour me, as I beg for the higher things..
..casted away on a bed of violins. Away from constant violence
and neglect, finally to gain a respect from piers and friends-
what a beautiful thought..
.. but I still fear the immense.
I wish my thoughts had a tense.. cuz while I preach with tears
You're still reading. . . . yet I'm still lying here.
I wouldn't say I was dying here, but I'm being sincere..
when I say I'm trying here.
.
& just to be clear, for when you buy the book..
It will hesistantly title, "A Boy Who Was Never Touched".
No age, No Name..
-Brixton.