Before the little butterfly can even spread out their dainty wings,
Before the little cherubs can even learn to fly,
Before they even take the first faltering steps,
Towards what they like and what they deserve.
The tiny wings are clipped and the legs chained.
The blossoming flower is nipped in the bud,
Where it dries off in a lonely corner.
The blooming sapling covered by a brick,
Where it turns sickly pale and non viable.
And the parents in their excessive care,
And in their baseless material competitiveness,
Teach their child to run before they walk.
And grow with genius brains and half a heart,
With multiple talents and shriveled imagination,
As the rate race and materialism spreads its wings,
Covering the scarred backs of millions of children.
© Masquerade
#noplagiarism
YOU ARE READING
MUSINGS OF A SOLIVAGANT
PoetryJust like her solivagant mind wanders and the soft vernalagnia colors her cheeks, rosy - poetry swells from her inside. What her camera captures, spins words of hope and despair in her. Where the heart bleeds on to the paper, there springs poetry...
