I am sorry for not putting up any post yesterday but believe me, I would have but then the network wasn't good enough as
also my health. Anyway, today I feel better and in fact the network is really down but I must post today even if it means climbing atop trees, walking down the street or constantly raised hands just to get a better network.
I hope we've all been doing good and somehow could relate to the poems posted earlier, I hope somehow something stirs in you and give yourself a moment of thought as you read 'em
also my health. Anyway, today I feel better and in fact the network is really down but I must post today even if it means climbing atop trees, walking down the street or constantly raised hands just to get a better network.
I hope we've all been doing good and somehow could relate to the poems posted earlier, I hope somehow something stirs in you and give yourself a moment of thought as you read 'em
BEAUTY, KNIFE AND BLOOD.
Do you say the beautiful are not yet born?
Or could it an illusion be?
How could one have all these yet sit here
A place of shackles and chains
A land of bondage
It was a cold morning in June
When I met May
Not in the brightest of clouds
Nor in the perfect way you meet a friend
But in those cold walls of prison.
Hands fragile enough, scared of hurting
But which already hurt
Mouth still in awe of how the feeble hands
Royal hands could wield a knife
Through and into a soul
The one she loved slipped away from her
By her hands, she stilled the knife in him
His death she had caused in April
Before she could tell him news of his life
Another of him that stirs in her
March she had been told
Told of the tiny one that managed to stay
Despite the batters and punches
With what tone would she tell it
One that would come through her into these walls
One never to touch the flowers she planted
Never to sit on the back of his father
She could have taken the beating again
Because the Eba has a lump and stretches
But not another soul would she bleed away by his punch
If she'd not make eba before she breaks the news
Of the one growing inside of her
But the knife has been thrown already a million times
In her head just to teach a lesson but it went too deep
A part she never imagined but became her reality of forever guilt
Do you say the beautiful are not yet born?
Or could it an illusion be?
How could one have all these yet sit here
A place of shackles and chains
A land of bondage
It was a cold morning in June
When I met May
Not in the brightest of clouds
Nor in the perfect way you meet a friend
But in those cold walls of prison.
Hands fragile enough, scared of hurting
But which already hurt
Mouth still in awe of how the feeble hands
Royal hands could wield a knife
Through and into a soul
The one she loved slipped away from her
By her hands, she stilled the knife in him
His death she had caused in April
Before she could tell him news of his life
Another of him that stirs in her
March she had been told
Told of the tiny one that managed to stay
Despite the batters and punches
With what tone would she tell it
One that would come through her into these walls
One never to touch the flowers she planted
Never to sit on the back of his father
She could have taken the beating again
Because the Eba has a lump and stretches
But not another soul would she bleed away by his punch
If she'd not make eba before she breaks the news
Of the one growing inside of her
But the knife has been thrown already a million times
In her head just to teach a lesson but it went too deep
A part she never imagined but became her reality of forever guilt
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