Holding One's Own.
The fine line btween priceless and worthless caries by number.
Hard to paint and hard to erase.
Can I ever be the same again?
To return to the days before I was ridiculed and despised...
or was I conceived a failure and shameful commodity?
A child's laughter that has no value;
a voice without a sound.
Torn down by the rain,
the wind,
and the words of those who gaze.
Heartily, ask for mercy,
they bellow in disregard.
Beneath them:
of no value and all shame.
Holding one's own hand
clasped around one's own throat,
fingers interlaced.
In the midst of a shallow grave,
with an endevour to end.
Hard to paint and hard to erase.
Can I ever be the same again?
To return to the days before I was ridiculed and despised...
or was I conceived a failure and shameful commodity?
A child's laughter that has no value;
a voice without a sound.
Torn down by the rain,
the wind,
and the words of those who gaze.
Heartily, ask for mercy,
they bellow in disregard.
Beneath them:
of no value and all shame.
Holding one's own hand
clasped around one's own throat,
fingers interlaced.
In the midst of a shallow grave,
with an endevour to end.