They call themselves the righteous ones, They are never wrong. Society's most absolute form. Always at church to confess their sins. They even claim, they are clean within. Spoke of love and kindness to all, for they are the righteous ones afterall.
They saw something they didn't like. A man, with tattoes, and a crooked smile. He's not like them; they are aware. Probably why they didn't care. They said, he is not clean; He has sinned. It's obvious from the drawings on his skin.
He wanted to repent, be righteous like them. But clearly, they didn't took him well. All the man wanted was
acceptance from them. But righteous ones said, he is corrupted, on his way to hell.
They called him names, insults of every kind. Gave him judgements everyday, in his fucking miserable life. They don't want anything to do with him so they led him astray. They made him the monster, he was today.
His endless battle had been lost. His eyes dried with tears, he will never be good enough. Then he saw salvation, and death was his only way out. He pulled a gun, aimed it on his head, pulled the trigger, he's dead.
The rightful ones, they cried and grieved. They said he is a good man,
with very good deeds. Praying for the heavens to spare his soul. For they are the righteous ones
afterall.
YOU ARE READING
Pieces of Me
PoetryNot your typical book of poems, simply because my mind is a dark and dangerous place. This features just that. Enjoy.
