I can hear you crying for that halo

I'm quick learning lessons form the devil
but can't decide whether I arrived or was contrived.
I view so many faces form a tower up above
neglected inner wants and hungers for what I love.
Cluttered bunched black eyed and voiceless,
I fill up the sugar cup to stay up at night in my black upabove.

Where my face is a moon full of craters
with crummy eyes and cyst-thighs.
A perfect beacon for the fictionettes
who spread their legs wide open on the plasma
embodiments of everything I hide about my self today.

Hips rashed, elastic, crowded
barely wrenched into my upmost ambition for attraction.
So I nurse fellow wilted and the withered
shallow love, smut love
our love in my black upabove.

My face is a room full of mirrors
with crummy eyes and blistered thighs a bent brain full of lies.
A beacon for the fiction body voodoo
embodiments in morbid tense
misplace your grace to chase your copaface.