I traveled deep, dark places
across the seven seas
where children wear no faces
but laugh atop the trees
to point their pointy fingers
upon this severed chest
where all the loathing lingers
in birthmarks uncaressed.

I traveled all the mazes
where phobia could flee,
but still the children's faces
look monstrous to me.
I've learnt that some are born
to die, and not belong.
To throw their towel torn
and live but through a song.

I traveled, but no further
shall this sick journey be;
oblivious lies murder
in birth's identity.
Some grow to stock their shelf
where new life has begun.
The murder of one's self
is where I set upon.