I counted the seeds,
I have found eight.
I thought about it,
And I remembered it late.
These pips in my fruit,
Counts the number of my peeps.
It ain't fulfilling a booth,
But it will make you weep.
I have ten fingers in my hands,
Yet, I kept wondering, are you one?
I kept thinking, are you a friend?
Or an enemy in a mask?
These pips are symbolisms.
Don't let me give five of it to you,
Because peace is what I wanted,
Not hatred.
YOU ARE READING
An Obscure Reflection
PoetryMy simple thoughts can be a vast of strange collection of words. These strange collections of words completes me. [01 13 2020 - republished, but not revised, for personal reasons] [01 13 2020 - I made this compilation three years ago and I was just...
