I often forget who I am and it pains,
As a soul forgets to polish itself
On rough love, rough life, rough death,
Still I look at bright sun and scream oblivion.
I often think about lives I lived and it pains,
As a happiness turns traumatic over thoughts,
Keep writing a story I will write once,
Whomever you are,
Wake me up when the lost never return.
There is a child hiding under the dusty sheets,
Pick him up and clean him up to shine,
Soon, he will know the blessing of cursing,
I’m awaiting for a moment to rejoice.© sjwordsmith
What’s With Him? | Poem