1 min read | When you cry about Dad beating you, You nag about…
At first, as a toddler.
Beautiful sights to behold,
The world is filled with colors,
Beautiful as such that would make me love a phyton,
Enticing as such that would make me move near it And want to have a touch.
Beautiful as such that it made me want to have fun With a lion oblivious of the harm it might cause.
I would kneel and beg yearthousand, just to stay with the colors.
When I look at the sky,
Going down memory lane.
My heart was as clear as Crystal,
As pure as water,
So tender as a lamb.
My brain thought well without corruption
My maka, innocent,
My hand did the needful,
My feet tread the path of the law,
My whole body did justice.
I would kneel and beg yearthousand, just to remain a toddler
Piecemeal, it faded .
I wouldn’t want to see a phyton,
I wouldn’t dare think of a lion,
My heart was becoming dark.
Defilement and corruption now filled my brain.
My maka is aggressive.
My hands did the unjust,
I, color outside the line,
My whole body did injustice.
The world is a bad influence.
I would kneel and beg yearthousand, just to leave this world.
Filthy hands ✋
People with killer instincts
Those are what the world entails,
That is what it influenced me with.
I would kneel and beg yearthousand, just to go to the catacombs.
I shuffled off this mortal coil.
At the entrance of the celestial’s abode,
I was given a second chance back to earth,
I yelled at the celestial herald 👼
I never pleaded for a second chance,
I never needed one,
I never needed any.
I wouldn’t want to go back into that dark world,
I would kneel and beg yearthousand, just to stay at the celestial’s entrance.
I wouldn’t want to go back and face that scornful world,
I wouldn’t want to go back into sufferness
I wouldn’t want to go back into illness
I wouldn’t want to go back into into violence
Not into evil deeds.
Not into stinking wealth.
I would rather rot in the grave,
I would rather stay admist the heavens and the earth
I would rather be a messanger to God.
I would rather kneel and beg yearthousand just to stay at the celestial’s entrance.
How sad it feels
When in lieu the fun of day
At the early morn’s yawn
You are tagged with the thorn
Protruding off the Rose’s stem.
It pains and itches to the bones
When the Lily, bright and lovely
Turns pungent to the eye
Which brings itself close, for a sniff.
How weary the soul feels
When the bell chimes
To bring the day to consciousness
The cry of my halved heart
Is heard from behind closed doors.
I am too touched…
The Nuptial tie is now
Being courted by the Sleeping Cry.