Year 1: Escapism by Jonathan Foster

Roses are red, aren’t they? Roses are red?

Violets are blue. Can’t be? Violets are blue?

Am I dead? I haven’t a fucking clue

Take your medicine said the bitchy nurse

This is my fear, and my fear is my curse.

I’ve got a father, but mother is dead

She was killed by an evil bitch he swore

My marked face, ugly to look at, a sore

Leather belt streaks that never fade-away

twice per day, once per night, pay I must pay.

It’s just a game, head, shoulders, knees, toes, dick?

Wait? Mummy I don’t like this, stop it I cried

Pose, smile, stand for awhile, it’s just a pic

Fingers here, lips there, give a gentle bite

Once per night, twice per day, for her delight.

How do we do it? Taut rope? Sharp knife? Pills?

Are you okay through the door? Fine we lied

Jump from high, use a car, that thing that kills

Does it hurt, is it messy, do we care?

We can’t stay, not another day, not here.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, a target he must find,

In the dark awaits a man that is kind

Bright eyes, sharp smile, sharper blade, hello miss

Iime Bottoms, Large breast, dont stop – keep running

Too late, opened throat, red moon, blood’s coming.

BITCH!!

Who? Me you he she we us they them, it?

I’m confused, did she die, was her throat slit?

Hang on, is he me? Is she? What is this

Nurse! I need to leave, I do not belong

What is going on, it has all gone wrong.

Take your medicine said the bitchy nurse

Trapped in walls, behind doors, it could be worse

[Seven] Love bites, purple scars [Eleven]

Can’t stay, run away, run away, no more

Rejection made her the first blonde at ten.

One day, pink roses turned red drinking blood

Daddy said. Slash, he hid her in the mud

Who knew, I love you meant here comes death too

Stop: Daddy said I’ll sell the little whore

She has friends, what must a little boy do?

Dark shadows, come and goes, red lipstick stains

Stop! Shut up! Let me speak! Chronic heart pains

Goodbye, hello forty-five, this was fun

Holy fucking shit Jon, is that a gun

BANG! – Onomatopoeia.

Where’s the fucken’ metre gone?

Doesn’t matter, should I use polyester or nylon?

With never closing eyes, what can they see?

Stuck between life and death, let myself be.

I have lost my mind – Schizophrenia.