Love, Pain & Me

Flowers for the Inner child

Hung up this floor of concrete
Rendered defenceless under the beat of drops
Me with my eyes and their ineffable pain
I'm still a boy, just eleven years old

The man in the mirror is unrecognisable and not agreeable
The voice of the boy who says, "disgusting" is foreseeable
His hands like clouds on my skin
Not as soft as they tear my cheeks apart

Passing time and buildings
Opinions so brutal
Almost concerning
Holding thoughts my hands paused
Over letters that cut deep
Trumps drowning in ocean's blue