I feel that life is a gift that I don’t deserve
while there are abundant beauty and infinite wonders.
It’s a like a painting you can stare at for hours,
once done makes unending embarks.
At least, certainly it seems to be that way
yet it creates the pain day by day.
But it exists in the realm, of its own true perdition,
when pacing of the parasites begins to swell
Why did heart’s blood flow, and no seers cried,
to a man who was beaten, and his humanity denied
That the innocence of her eyes that appeared wild
her soul took form and revealed her a child
Stop! Why do you have to say go when it was no?
They’re just images acted as the friend yet lived as foes.
Life suffers only in silence yet demands to be heard
it will never survive without its bevy of words.
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