Sickness did this to me
If only you knew how much I've changed
Since this day, the difference is great
Six years have passed since I underwent
The world-flipping hit, the sign that read, "stop"
Since then I have grown, since then I've been switched
Since then I've matured, toward intelligence I have itched
All the things about me that people once knew
Were gone, as my person suddenly became new
In my head came a voice, one of torture and hate
A voice that switched pitches, still great
It towered over my soul with power and strength
There is nothing I can do to get out of its way
So for the past six years here I have stood
Under the influence of this evil hood
This hate, and this drive, determination all too live
This world and this lifestyle I struggle with inside
If you understand the agony, can read into the pain
You'd understand why I don't want to stay the same
But escaping myself is not something I can do
‘cause I'm keeping my self here, I'll stay here: I want to.
poem by D.M.L. Catseye
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Hate That Is Not Mine
I hate the way we live
I hate we have to die
I hate the way you want it to be all over
And suddenly change ur mind
I hate you want to hurt yourself
I hate you always cry
I hate I see myself somewhere deep inside your eyes
I hate that I can relate to you
I hate that you cant see
All the good things in your life
I hate you cant see me
I hate when I look in the mirror
Your the person looking back
I hate that every day seems like someone will attack
I hate that I am weak
I hate that you are hear
I hate that I can't change all the things I fear
I hate that I dont hate you
instead I hate myself
for im the one who can't even remember my true self
I hate I let you into my mind
I hate you let me stop living
I hate that I can't stand up to you and understand what im forgiving
I hate I dont talk to you
I hate its not like it use to be
I hate time that makes me change to what you want to see
I hate you couldnt tell this wasn't all my hate
I take your hate into myself and understand my fate
sometimes I dont understand the hate
and still I continue to see
all the hate deep down inside of you
is now inside of me.
poem by Kendra Short
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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HaTe
I think I HaTe her
HaTe what she's become
HaTe how its ended
HaTe how it unfolds
But it's not only her
I HaTe him too
A wreck for sure
A fool that only exists
Like an endless soul
He's lost someone
And it's changed him
But not only that
Someone close
Has closed her heart
For in her world
Love has no existence
Then there is him
He thinks somethings wrong
He's unconvinced of his life
I disagree
But I don't understand
I look at him and wonder
What is going on?
He's opened my eyes
For I have fooled myself
It's happened once
Now again
Not long ago
It happened again
Once is unconcerned
Twice is coincidence
Third is pattern
I wish it could end here
Scoffing the only people
I have ever really known
But it doesn't
For now I look at someone
And instantly HaTe them
I HaTe their skills
I HaTe their abilities
I've always disliked people
But not like this
HaTe grows inside me
I know it doesn't matter
I know no-one cares
But I feel as though
Somewhere it should
But every time I turn around
Failure strikes again
Wether it be myself
Or a skill I once possessed
However for some reason
I continue to struggle
Without giving up
I don't understand why
I don't understand how
But I press on
Without a reason
Is this good?
Is this bad?
I don't know
I'm not sure I care
I just know
And thats all I need...
HaTe HaTe HaTe
poem by Seth Kaileen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Wish I Hated You
I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU! !
I’M CRYING OUT – CAN’T YOU HEAR ME? ! ? !
MY HEART ISN’T BROKEN… IT’S SHATTERED
YOU TOOK MY HEART AND WALKED ALL OVER IT
WITH YOUR COLD AND INCONSIDERATE WAYS
NOW, I DARE YOU – TRY TO BREAK MY HEART AGAIN
WITH YOUR SELFISH AND IMMATURE BEHAVIOR
TRY TO TEAR ME APART AGAIN, I DARE YOU
STOMP ALL OVER MY VERY EXISTANCE
YOU DID IT BEFORE. JUST DO IT AGAIN YOU TWO-FACED BOY
I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU
THESE WORDS I SO WISH I COULD SAY TO YOUR FACE
SO YOU COULD SEE THE WRECK YOU CAUSED
BUT THERE YOU GO… RIGHT PAST ME
I’M A PERSON! ! NOT A THING YOU CAN TOSS AWAY! !
YOU’RE BREAKING ME APART – STOP IT!
STOP TREATING ME LIKE THIS
COMING BACK RIGHT WHEN I’M ABOUT TO GET OVER YOU
…THEN LEAVING AGAIN! ! !
I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU
YOU CAME INTO MY LIFE AND TOOK MY HOPE
SMASHED MY DREAMS
WHAT ELSE DO YOU WANT FROM ME? ! ? !
I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU
I HATE YOUR FACE THAT LURED ME IN
I HATE YOUR VOICE THAT TOLD ME SUCH LIES
I HATE YOUR HEIGHT THAT TOWERS OVER ME MAKING ME A LESSER PERSON
AND MOST OF ALL, I HATE YOUR EYES THAT LOOK RIGHT THROUGH ME
EACH TIME I COME UP TO YOU
I HATE YOUR HEARING THAT CAN’T SEEM TO HEAR ME WHEN I CALL OUT TO YOU
I HATE YOUR BRAIN THAT CAN’T SEEM TO UNDERSTAND THE PAIN I’M IN
I HATE YOUR REVOLTING THOUGHT PROCESS THAT REFUSES TO BELIEVE
I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU, I HATE YOU
I WOULD SAY I HATE YOU, BUT I THINK WE BOTH KNOW THAT IT’S NOT TRUE
I HATE THE WAY NO MATTER WHAT YOU DO, I’LL STILL BE BY YOUR SIDE
LOYAL AND SMILING THROUGH THE PAIN
poem by Nikki Taboada
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Why Do We Despise Another
Hate is evil
Hate tries to consume you, wait, stop! Fight back
Don't let it take over your mind
Evil spreads itself all over the world grabbing weak souls
Yeah, sometimes I get angry, but I must remember
I can't let it get me
I must be strong
I fight evil with the merciless God giving me the strength
Not to fall in the fate of evil
When you’re angry, you're not yourself, but something else
Evil causes you to do the unthinkable, but
The ones that are still holy must stay holy until the end
Hold on, don't let go!
We will soon have revenge
Just hold on a little more
Yeah, of course I hate when people talk about me
I hate when people bully others for being different
I hate when people steal from me
I hate when people pretend to be my friend, but use me
I hate when people take the lives of others
I hate to be around people because they have betray me
But in the end
Anger is my worst enemy
So I hum to God in my mind to enter my heart and save my soul
I don't want to let evil fill my heart to where I no longer care
I want to be saved
Thank you God, you have saved me
poem by Alisha Ricks
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I Do Not Hate.....
I hate the way you drive me mad
And the way my head won't shut
I hate that you can make me glad
And the burning that won't cut
I hate the way you made me fall]
And how myself i found
I hate my mobile when you call
I hate that stupid sound
I hate the way my heart shivers
The time you call my cell
I hate that thoughts flow like rivers
Inside my head is hell
I hate the way you read my mind
I hate what you make me feel
I hate how I've become this blind
I hate that you are real
I hate it how you stole my pride
I hate that I admit
I hate the way I boil inside
And how my heart you lit
I hate to think that you are small
I hate to think you're not
I hate to think that above all
I might not get a shot
I hate the things you make me do
And how you make me shove
I hate that i do not hate you
I hate it might be love...
The Mighty Power Of The Pen
When I was young, you told me
That the pen was mightier than the sword.
‘Twas from those days I do believe
You showed me the power of written word.
Not only did you show that to me,
But you practised what you preached.
I watched you as you daily proved,
That to the furthest corner word could reach.
I have used this power in so many ways.
I have never known it fail.
When knowledge or point I wish to impart,
With the pen I just "set sail".
I really wish to thank you Dad
For the times I did not understand.
When I felt angry with myself and the world,
You placed a pen within my hand.
You taught me that there are many ways,
To say what is in my heart.
You told me that whatever I said,
To make it constructive from the start.
So as I look back along the years,
To the times when I said "No! "
I recall your voice and see your face,
And to the "power of the pen" I go.
I've learnt from hardship and from good,
That to help to change the world,
I must sit me down and constructively write,
When once angry words I'd have hurled.
poem by Rosi Caswell
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The Pig
In England once there lived a big
And wonderfully clever pig.
To everybody it was plain
That Piggy had a massive brain.
He worked out sums inside his head,
There was no book he hadn't read.
He knew what made an airplane fly,
He knew how engines worked and why.
He knew all this, but in the end
One question drove him round the bend:
He simply couldn't puzzle out
What LIFE was really all about.
What was the reason for his birth?
Why was he placed upon this earth?
His giant brain went round and round.
Alas, no answer could be found.
Till suddenly one wondrous night.
All in a flash he saw the light.
He jumped up like a ballet dancer
And yelled, "By gum, I've got the answer!"
"They want my bacon slice by slice
"To sell at a tremendous price!
"They want my tender juicy chops
"To put in all the butcher's shops!
"They want my pork to make a roast
"And that's the part'll cost the most!
"They want my sausages in strings!
"They even want my chitterlings!
"The butcher's shop! The carving knife!
"That is the reason for my life!"
Such thoughts as these are not designed
To give a pig great piece of mind.
Next morning, in comes Farmer Bland,
A pail of pigswill in his hand,
And piggy with a mighty roar,
Bashes the farmer to the floor…
Now comes the rather grizzly bit
So let's not make too much of it,
Except that you must understand
That Piggy did eat Farmer Bland,
He ate him up from head to toe,
Chewing the pieces nice and slow.
It took an hour to reach the feet,
Because there was so much to eat,
And when he finished, Pig, of course,
Felt absolutely no remorse.
Slowly he scratched his brainy head
And with a little smile he said,
"I had a fairly powerful hunch
"That he might have me for his lunch.
"And so, because I feared the worst,
"I thought I'd better eat him first."
poem by Roald Dahl
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The Voice of Truth - A Short Story
"I cannot love her! , yelled the man.
"And why is that? ", the soft voice questioned.
"She will never change. ", the man exclaimed,
"She yells at me, scolds me and does not respect me."
"I can see how you cannot love her.", replied the voice.
The man loosened up. "You understand? ", he asked.
"Of course I understand" the voice confirmed,
"How can you possibly love a woman like that, "
"When you are expecting so much of her? "
Puzzled, the man listened to the voice further.
"You cannot love and expect at the same time.
You can either love her, or expect from her
You see, the purpose of love is to give.
It is my gift to you, to be given to another.
As is her love for you.
You choose who the gift is given to and who it is not.
You cannot expect her to give you her love.
That is a demand.
All you have the ability to do,
Is to give her yours.
The balance you seek is very unbalanced.
Patience, kindness, grace and mercy are all gifts you can give.
If you are expectant of them, they are no longer a gift.
They become a right, an entitlement or an obligation.
The gift of one's love is not a right, but a privilege.
As are all privileges, if abused, they will be taken away.'
A tear rolled down the man's face.
"My heart has been so full of myself, I had no room in it for her." The man sobbed.
"I can see how that works."
The man seeing the err of his ways, realized his love was not true.
He returned to his wife with a new love.
A love not defined by himself,
But as defined by the voice of truth.
poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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A Child's Nightmare
Through long nursery nights he stood
By my bed unwearying,
Loomed gigantic, formless, queer,
Purring in my haunted ear
That same hideous nightmare thing,
Talking, as he lapped my blood,
In a voice cruel and flat,
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
That one word was all he said,
That one word through all my sleep,
In monotonous mock despair.
Nonsense may be light as air,
But there's Nonsense that can keep
Horror bristling round the head,
When a voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
He had faded, he was gone
Years ago with Nursery Land,
When he leapt on me again
From the clank of a night train,
Overpowered me foot and head,
Lapped my blood, while on and on
The old voice cruel and flat
Says for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..."
Morphia drowsed, again I lay
In a crater by High Wood:
He was there with straddling legs,
Staring eyes as big as eggs,
Purring as he lapped my blood,
His black bulk darkening the day,
With a voice cruel and flat,
"Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!..." he said, "Cat! ... Cat!..."
When I'm shot through heart and head,
And there's no choice but to die,
The last word I'll hear, no doubt,
Won't be "Charge!" or "Bomb them out!"
Nor the stretcher-bearer's cry,
"Let that body be, he's dead!"
But a voice cruel and flat
Saying for ever, "Cat! ... Cat! ... Cat!"
poem by Robert Graves
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A Casualty
That boy I took in the car last night,
With the body that awfully sagged away,
And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright,
And the poor hands folded and cold as clay --
Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.
For the weary old doctor says to me:
"He'll only last for an hour or so.
Both of his legs below the knee
Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,
And please remember, he doesn't know."
So I tried to drive with never a jar;
And there was I cursing the road like mad,
When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car:
"Tell me, old chap, have I `copped it' bad?"
So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad."
"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two
Life's so splendid, I hate to go.
There's so much good that a chap might do,
And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so.
'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."
"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile,
And I passed him a cheery word or two;
But he didn't answer for many a mile,
So just as the hospital hove in view,
Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"
Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me;
And he takes my hand in his trembling hold;
"Thank you -- you're far too kind," says he:
"I'm awfully comfy -- stay . . . let's see:
I fancy my blanket's come unrolled --
My feet, please wrap 'em -- they're cold . . . they're cold."
poem by Robert William Service
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People Are People
We're different colours
And we're different creeds
And different people
Have different needs
It's obvious you hate me
Though I've done nothing wrong
I've never even met you
What could I have done
La, la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la, la, la
People are people
So why should it be
You and I shouldnt get along
People are people
So why should it be
You should hate mePeople are people
So why should it be
You and I shouldnt get along
People are people
So why should it be
You should hate me
You're punching, kicking
And you're shouting at me
And I'm relying on your common decency
La, la. la, la. la
So far it hasn't surfaced
But I'm sure it exists
It just takes a while to travel
From your head to your fist
Can't understand what makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand
People are people
So why should it be
You and I shouldnt get along
People are people
So why should it be
You should hate mePeople are people
So why should it be
You and I shouldnt get along
People are people
So why should it be
You should hate me
I can't understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand
I can't understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand
I can't understand
What makes a man
Hate another man
Help me understand
song performed by by A Perfect Circle
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Yoy want anything
You want anything
"You want anything from me "
I told her to be frank and free"
She did not stop looking down
It was sheer fault of my own
I loved her and confided many times
Yet she had apprehensions sometimes
Any serious girl may think hundred times
Before making her self available on that line
I have great regard for her sense of pride
Many a times she opined and did not hide
I was afraid to face her in day light
As she never crossed the way to fight
This was my first encounter with her
She was bold and brave with no fear
"I shall face world but not go back"
To my words even if so much is at stake
I left her in lurch and went abroad
As I was poor and down with debt load
I had to make move with heavy heart
Even though I resolved in mind to make her part
Today I am back after many years
I wanted same original voice to be heard in ears
I sent for her a message with flower
To see me in private but not at place very far
I saw her with pale face but not completely down
She was in complete command and made it known
"I am unmarried yet" but paused in between
"I too same for these many years have been"
We both were passing through same phase
Life was normal but not with any fine base
It lacked warmth and life's discipline
How could everything be smooth and fine?
"I am reformed and at my best"
The past was past and passed off as test
Let us be one again and spend the rest of the journey
She smiled for a while and I thanked almighty
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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In the Waiting Room
In Worcester, Massachusetts,
I went with Aunt Consuelo
to keep her dentist's appointment
and sat and waited for her
in the dentist's waiting room.
It was winter. It got dark
early. The waiting room
was full of grown-up people,
arctics and overcoats,
lamps and magazines.
My aunt was inside
what seemed like a long time
and while I waited and read
the National Geographic
(I could read) and carefully
studied the photographs:
the inside of a volcano,
black, and full of ashes;
then it was spilling over
in rivulets of fire.
Osa and Martin Johnson
dressed in riding breeches,
laced boots, and pith helmets.
A dead man slung on a pole
"Long Pig," the caption said.
Babies with pointed heads
wound round and round with string;
black, naked women with necks
wound round and round with wire
like the necks of light bulbs.
Their breasts were horrifying.
I read it right straight through.
I was too shy to stop.
And then I looked at the cover:
the yellow margins, the date.
Suddenly, from inside,
came an oh! of pain
--Aunt Consuelo's voice--
not very loud or long.
I wasn't at all surprised;
even then I knew she was
a foolish, timid woman.
I might have been embarrassed,
but wasn't. What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
Without thinking at all
I was my foolish aunt,
I--we--were falling, falling,
our eyes glued to the cover
of the National Geographic,
February, 1918.
I said to myself: three days
and you'll be seven years old.
I was saying it to stop
the sensation of falling off
the round, turning world.
into cold, blue-black space.
But I felt: you are an I,
you are an Elizabeth,
you are one of them.
Why should you be one, too?
I scarcely dared to look
to see what it was I was.
I gave a sidelong glance
--I couldn't look any higher--
at shadowy gray knees,
trousers and skirts and boots
and different pairs of hands
lying under the lamps.
I knew that nothing stranger
had ever happened, that nothing
stranger could ever happen.
Why should I be my aunt,
or me, or anyone?
What similarities
boots, hands, the family voice
I felt in my throat, or even
the National Geographic
and those awful hanging breasts
held us all together
or made us all just one?
How I didn't know any
word for it how "unlikely". . .
How had I come to be here,
like them, and overhear
a cry of pain that could have
got loud and worse but hadn't?
The waiting room was bright
and too hot. It was sliding
beneath a big black wave,
another, and another.
Then I was back in it.
The War was on. Outside,
in Worcester, Massachusetts,
were night and slush and cold,
and it was still the fifth
of February, 1918.
poem by Elizabeth Bishop
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Painful Memories
He is so lonely.
Feeling like he in a dead place.
Like a cemetery without no grass.
And tombstones of people that he knew from the past.
In the past hisfriend got shot in a drive by in a car that was shattered in broken glass.
But he has a girl that he loves all his life
The love never last.
He was driving in traffic.
And almost ended up in a crash.
Life can hit you hard when you lose somebody close.
And it hurts the most.
Love and hate is what surrounds us in this world and also fate.
He wish he could have his friend back and his girlfriend back.
But only thing is, he have to be strong and move on.
He thinks if he could paint a picture of his feelings.
It would be beautiful art.
The pain he feels is like a ocean.
He looks up in the sky and he saw a raindropp came down watching god cry.
He understands that the lord can feel our pain too.
He understands of being alive and being a man to understand life.
He understands being true.
He understand we can't cry out snow.
Because it would make it a cold world.
He understand he would struggle in life like being hit by hail.
He knows If he cries.
He hopes to sail.
All the pain he has inside.
He cry and flood a field.
But love always kills.
Because the pain is what the heart feels.
So he knows he will have to heal.
And be strong still.
poem by Anteaus Berryhill
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Porcelina Of The Vast Ocean
I fear that I am ordinary, just like everyone
To lie here and die among the sorrows
Drift along the days
For everything I ever saidAnd everything I've ever done is gone and dead
As all things must surely have to endAnd great loves will one day have to part
I know that I'm not ment for this world
My live's been extraordinary
Blessed and cursed and wons
Time heals but I'm forever brokenBy and by the way....
Have you ever heard the wordsI'm singing in this song?
It for the one I've waited all along
Can a taste of love be so wrong?
As all things must surely have to endAnd great loves will one day have to part
I know that I'm not ment for this world
And in my mind as I was floatingFar above the clouds
Some children laughed I'd fall for certain
For thinking that I'd last forever
But I knew exactly where I was
And I knew the meaning of it all
And I knew the distance to the sun
And I knew the echo that is love
And I knew the secrets in your spires
And I knew the emptiness of youth
And I knew the solitude of hearts
And I knew the murmurs of the soul
And the world is drawn into your hands
And the world is ethed upon your heart
And the world so hard to understand
Is the world you can't live without
'Cause I knew the silence of the world
song performed by by Smashing Pumpkins
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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When I Met My Muse
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.
poem by William Stafford
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The Battle
I've entered the ring and I'm ready to fight
I'll need all my strength, and I'll need all my might.
The opponent is big, and so very strong.
To win seems impossible. This may not last long.
In a tension filled room the bell rang aloud.
My family was yelling; "Win. Make us proud."
My opponent came quickly over to me.
He was big and strong, and I wanted to flee.
He hit me so hard that I fell to the floor.
I lay hearing the count, … 1….2….3….4.
Should I try to get up, or stay down and wait?
The count kept on going, 23256 5….6….7….8.
Then piercing my soul came a voice to my ear;
"Son, reach out to me. We can win. I am here.
It hurts Me to see you in such agony.
You are my child, and are precious to me."
Tears came to my eyes, and new strength to each glove.
I knew that the voice was my God, from above.
I jumped to my feet just before the count ten,
Committed to never be knocked down again.
With the Lord in my corner, the opponent looked small,
My opponent's not man, but drugs and alcohol.
Though he's determined, defeat is my vow,
He trembles with fear, because God's with me now.
The fight is not over, but my foe's on the run.
A fight that seemed hopeless is soon to be won.
With the Lord on our side every battle we'll win
With victory assured when we turn to Him.
poem by Ron Tranmer
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The Man Who Knew
The Dreamer visioned Life as it might be,
And from his dream forthright a picture grew,
A painting all the people thronged to see,
And joyed therein -- till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "'Tis bad! Why do ye gape, ye fools!
He painteth not according to the schools."
The Dreamer probed Life's mystery of woe,
And in a book he sought to give the clue;
The people read, and saw that it was so,
And read again -- then came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "Ye witless ones! this book is vile:
It hath not got the rudiments of style."
Love smote the Dreamer's lips, and silver clear
He sang a song so sweet, so tender true,
That all the market-place was thrilled to hear,
And listened rapt -- till came the Man Who Knew,
Saying: "His technique's wrong; he singeth ill.
Waste not your time." The singer's voice was still.
And then the people roused as if from sleep,
Crying: "What care we if it be not Art!
Hath he not charmed us, made us laugh and weep?
Come, let us crown him where he sits apart."
Then, with his picture spurned, his book unread,
His song unsung, they found their Dreamer -- dead.
poem by Robert William Service
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Ingerid Sletten
Ingerid Sletten of Sillejord
Neither gold nor silver did own,
But a little hood of gay wool alone,
Her mother had given of yore.
A little hood of gay wool alone,
With no braid nor lining, was here;
But parent love made it ever dear,
And brighter than gold it shone.
She kept the hood twenty years just so:
"Be it spotless," softly she cried,
"Until I shall wear it once as bride,
When I to the altar go."
She kept the hood thirty years just so:
"Be it spotless," softly she cried,
"Then wear it I will, a gladsome bride,
When it to our Lord I show."
She kept the hood forty years just so,
With her mother ever in mind.
"Little hood, be with me to this resigned,
That ne'er to the altar we'll go."
She steps to the chest where the hood has lain,
And seeks it with swelling heart;
She guides her hand to its place apart,--
But never a thread did remain.
poem by Bjørnstjerne Bjørnson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother of Civilization
Her voice calm like a
Meditation of life's many troubled
All day's in demonstration unharm
Mother of civilization saying "people from
All races, religions walks of life in
It's strife "It was as the, she was looking
Though spiritual eye's of the present
Long ago "I know why a someone, out of
Every fun, would damage such pretty
Flowers, but in this world, there's lots of
People suffering because they don't understand
Life's process of maturing prior to their
Circumstances mentally, spiritually
Physically, due to modalities, of prayers
Is a power, that comes to all humans invisible
From the highest tower "it's frank, precisely
No bland" mother of civilization.
This isn't the house, Jack built this is my
House it was built, by God. "Many people
Are still grappling with old issues of evil
Random chance, illegal drugs where
Pestilence poverty is rampant. "Ghetto's
To educate young children for part of their
Lifetime their income including "Artificial
Intelligence evil remain with eternal
Question of faith, from a life of poverty
Crime, evil sin at random too unformed
Illiterate minds
In my home, I'm queen, my husband is king and our
Children is gift's from God said Mother of
Civilization ending her conversation.
poem by Henry Tolliver
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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