They say the mother in my world has no pulse
Because to me the World has died
Is already dead, too cruel an existence
They say I am cracked, that I
Know about the place where the light comes in
A commoner of low-class, caste-wise
Shy, definitely not a story-teller
Having barely experienced an ordinary life
I can safely assume to be
Without talents, wealth, backup plans
I am not conceited, nor do I believe
I live in the best country, have been
Socialized into narcotics, minus video games
They say the mother in my world
Wasn’t loved, that the men in her life were cruel
My father was an angry reader, and didn’t
Read for pleasure, never read me.

