He is the epitome of a broken soul,
poverty is his friend,
pain is his companion,
bitterness became the butter spread on his bread,
with a lot of burdens on his head.
The clouds he trusted so much,
made the sun to scorch his pale skin,
this same clouds,
made rain to drench him to stupor,
he couldn't be ungrateful, yet he wasn't grateful.
He is the model of a suffered heart longing for sufficiency.
He is the image of a murdered soul, longing for rebirth from the cradle.
He is the embroidery of darkness stitched on the hems of the garment.
He is the boy next door.
Thank you for your time.
My pen doesn't bleed, it speaks, with speed and ease.
Still me,
My tongue is like the pen of a ready writer.
Olawalium; (Love's chemical content, in human form). Take a dose today: doctor's order