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?
Hello cruel world, I’m here to join this circus.
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