My soul is like a withered farm,
In the middle of the heat,
With pests and toxic fertilizers,
Trying to regain.
My soul is dry as the soil,
Rocky as the ground,
Rough like a sand paper,
With direct sunlight burning it more.
My soul cannot be regain with water.
It cannot be cured or replaced.
My soul cannot be as dry as yours.
It cannot be alive anymore.
It won't let anything bloom for the mean time,
Or let the green grasses grow greener.
Sooner as I dry more, the pests will leave me.
And my withered farm,
As time goes by,
The rain will come to help me.
And I will heal.
The ground will moist,
Farmers will love my soil,
Grasses will grow,
And I won't let pests to come by anymore.
I will request for a scarecrow,
So birds won't eat my crops,
My farm will be okay.
And I will be healed.
YOU ARE READING
My Life and Other Things
PoetryThe thing is I do not know if my life is too common or I am just so unfocused and alone. The thing is I want to know if every people is same as me, or if that difference makes us the same. The thing is I have to write it all because that's the only...
