We are defined by the same ticks
We make critics about
The tips we set aside
We allocate marks and
Set boundaries to separate ourselves
But what are we resorting to?
It is not them, it is God
Who really defines us?
You question creation as if it was you
You would have done better
Than what you see
Who do you think you are?
Crippled are your minds
That think they're better
Cursed are your words
Crushing what is there
And what will always be
I am not perfect
And who said I should be?
Don't call me a genius, it's not a talent
Some fools made a clear path
While some geniuses are busy
With theories about life
I'm a well made creation
God made me with perfection
And that's what defines me
YOU ARE READING
The Odds
PoetryThe words I never got to say, some written but still not finished. On the other side, I never got to say the words buried deep in my soul, they escaped my mind before I could gather enough courage to say my peace. However I hope this will be a diffe...
