Only he knows that it hurts
Whenever he cleans the cuts
He seems to know a lot
But never speaks of the faults
To live alone
Do things on your own
Dwell in a place
That's not warm enough to be home
Dim eyes
Crow–filled skies
How can he disguise
Prove to life that he's still alive
They keep saying things
That stings his poor feelings
By their value he's like few shillings
By their judgement he's like evil faires
No one wants to come close
He's different and to them that's evil
Cause he can fly and dream too
He's then labelled not good
They see him like a disease
Cause his efforts doesn't cease
He keeps challenging loneliness by giving strangers smile
They pass deceit round, "Beware, he's sly."
Should the monster go back into his mother's womb?
That's a question for whom is the true monster
Is it the one who's different
Or the one increasing another's torment
The answer is very clear
Those who are agents of despair
To innocent ones out there
Are the real monsters in here
For monsters these days are men
Digging graves under people's beds
Promoting envy, malice and jealousy
While hatred and violence keeps developing
People killing people
With their eyes and words
They don't know what it does
And how far it goes deep into one's soul
These are the real monsters
Wicked fellows
With no tangible reason for their actions
Stabbing souls and creating
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hollows
YOU ARE READING
Wicked
Poetry...If I tell you you're my sun and moon If I tell you you've completely unwrapped my cocoon If I tell you I'm still alive Because I find life in your eyes If I tell you this emotion is wicked And even if it kills me, for hell or heaven, I'm prepared...
