Poetry count: 13
April 14th, 2024
:¨ ·.· ¨:
'· . ౨ৎ
Sometimes my eyes hover upon her,
The girl which once used to be bright,
Broken down by words of people,
Crushed down by the expectations
In her own mother's sight,
Tangled in the strings of
The unbroken Curse of life;
A part in her used to think, the world was,
Angel personified—
But how do I tell her?
She was wrong all along the way,
The world is not kind;
Or any of how the fairytales say—
People who shine really bright,
And make ways for other through their light;
Are seen none less than fools,
Later killed by these demonic owls,
This world is not heaven, my love,
It is a cursed piece of land,
And the only difference it makes from hell,
Is that, honey,
The killers are not the monstrous devils, with sharp fangs,
But, a sweet spoken—Man.
