If I could look at my own Soul
would it be nice and smooth and whole
or would it be a tattered mess;
a bruised and battered thing that’s less?
Way back there when I was new
did it get torn up instead of grew?
I feel, at times, the life we live
takes from us but does not give.
Then the remnants, torn to tatters
can’t remember stuff that matters;
instead we live our live of lust,
of servitude and self disgust.
Would we be better if we could see
the beauty that we ought to be?