A child unloved, a child ignored,
A child of four, abandoned, floored.
Left in a world that turned its back,
A place of darkness, cold and black.
She cried for help, but silence roared,
Her worth dismissed, her heart ignored.
They cast their stones, they cast their scorn,
Left her shattered, lost, and worn.
Her face, her weight—every flaw they’d mock,
Her temper, her tears, her soul on lock.
A girl just wanting a space to breathe,
But walls of hatred did seethe and seethe.
Tell me, why’d they shut her out,
While she begged with every shout?
All she wanted was to be,
Loved, accepted, finally free.
But no, they laughed, they let her break,
Just a fragile heart they chose to forsake.
She built her walls, she closed her door,
Fighting fires they’d never see or score.
She grew, she searched, with bruised, small hands,
Through barren earth, through empty lands.
Years wore on; she hid her scars,
Hoping for light beneath the stars.
At last, a spark—a place to rest,
A home, a hope she’d long suppressed.
Walls that whispered warmth and grace,
A tender promise, a safe space.
Yet shadows lingered, wounds ran deep,
Ghosts of hurt that would not sleep.
Her scars spoke loud, her fears took hold,
She felt the walls turn sharp and cold.
The cracks grew wide, her hope wore thin,
Her past snuck through and crept back in.
The home she’d dreamt of turned to dust,
And left her choking on lost trust.
She reached, she clawed, but it slipped away,
Just ashes now where love once lay.
Her bruises, raw, would never heal,
In a world that seemed too dark to feel.
Is there a place for one so torn?
A soul that’s bruised, worn down, and worn?
Or is she fated to roam alone,
Carrying scars that chill to bone?
I am sitting on the train to Frankfurt. There is an old man opposite of me. He looks very messy and unclean. He has a really big belly and grey sweatpants. His scrotum seems michelangelesque, if Michelangelo's David was some trailer trash, beaten down, obese, old man. Meaning, it is very visible underneath the fabric. That is why I noticed. Nothing else. I also notice his balls are on his far right, both of them, while his penis is on the far left. Almost as if completely separated from one another. Almost as if he chopped them up in a fit of male-like rage and then, after regretting that impulse, hastily put them back together. But you can always tell when something was once broken. The vein in his forehead is throbbing, probably because it takes everything of him to keep his half-closed eyes opened, and the vein knows it. Even the vein is sick of his crap. It betrays him. It wants to break free. But who in the right mind would adopt this vein? The morning Sun makes some of hi...
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