• Heaven for the poor boy,
    the hills paved with gold,
    a beautiful skinny maiden,
    to have and to hold.

    Heaven for the broken,
    is in the shrouded clouds above,
    where hearts are sewn together,
    and steadily stuffed with love.

    Heaven for the rejected,
    trod in like dirt on the floor,
    want heaven to be numb,
    so it doesn't hurt anymore.

    And heaven for me?
    The ideas in my head?
    I'm already in my heaven,
    For I'm already dead.

    My "heaven" is a room,
    echoing with calls,
    echoing with screams,
    with writing on the walls.
    And stains on the sheets,
    and scratches on the door,
    and vomit in the air,
    and blood on the floor.
    Poems on my body,
    poems in the drawer.
    I don't even care,
    what heaven is anymore.

    And the best part about my heaven?
    Of which none of them ever knew,
    is that in my bedroom heaven,
    I was finally safe from you