How can we as humans not judge?
Is it possible to look at something and not wonder about it?
Maybe so, but I will admit that I too judge how well a pencil writes.But what happens when the pencil decides to break?
The graphite will clutter and smudge on your fingers; exposing the actual soul.
The soul that really matters.And what will you do then?
Will you just wash it off and look at your hands in disgust?
Or will you let it seep into your own skin and let it wash into you.
Mold you,
Drown you,
Love you.
And maybe then you'll allow the cage of prejudice to open.
YOU ARE READING
Piece By Piece Of Me
PoetryI feel that poetry is an escape pod. Not to another world but one that i can escape to from myself. Because sometimes we need to look at ourself from the outside and maybe not the inside.