This poem won't be long,
It may neither be short,
This poem is yours,
It is mine,
Dedicated to us all.
This poem is been here for a very very long time you know
In your heart,
In mine,
Unwritten, Unspoken,
This poem won't be complete,
Oh yeah, right, it does not compete.
This poem is a broken piece of another broken piece.
It is a bad blend of broken pieces.
This poem tells of a robber who was robbed by a saint...
Of his peace of mind, his words before he could speak, his chance to survive; if he meets you, know you may not be alive...
This poem tells of a good girl gone wild, her legs are now a pathway to satisfaction for all men and her, she loves it, she loves how everything falls apart the more, the men, her legs, her soul, the children who never get their fees paid cause she has torn their father's pocket. Fun is when everything falls apart, broken.
Well this poem is also of a murderer who takes lives because his life was first taken by the one who gave life to him.
This poem is of a mother who never had a mother-figure-how she lived and died before she became a mother and how another child dies daily by her shattered hands.
It is of a daughter who never wants her own child, her mother didn't want her too, she wasn't ready, she was just a necessity. Fuck her. Haha.
But you know, if you look closely, maybe you could see a father too, in this poem, whose son never wants to be like,
He, in turn, didn't want to be like his father, so he never lived in his son's life. Boomerang? Bullshit?
Nah, told you this poem speaks of broken pieces, remember?
Laugh out loud,
This poem reminds me of a wife who is waiting for a chance to kill her husband because her father was a man who deserved to die and this man couldn't be any different.
Her husband knows though, that all women are witches, his mother was one.
This poem is about you,
This poem is about me,
About broken pieces,
Too Shattered to be chartered,
Stealthily zombieing to snatch, to smash yet another precious young innocent piece.
But this poem is also about a Uniform Man who understands nothing about Uniformity, he will shoot before he speaks, don't tempt him, his son died of hunger the other day, the government didn't care, he doesn't care either, now.
If you push that teacher you will see that she too is a heap of bricks, Your teacher is not your teacher, no she is,
This poem doesn't tell you that for sure,
It rather says she may just be a lady who took a job to stay away from the hate in her home, she has brought it to class. Don't push her. Lol.
Well this poem continues,
But this poem ends here,
If you happen not to have seen yourself in my mirror, then perhaps you forgot to look again at the beginning of this poem...
It is just a broken piece of another broken piece, you don't look to see, you look to stop the circle and start healing.
This poem has no end except that which you decide to make of it.
This poem makes no sense,
