sore

Suppurating sore of the soul
so he doesn't mind as
the flow's sore,
sharp and
biting
on

And pains of the soul and ones
sourced of the spirit's
come out poof on
the facial floor
so crimson
and in
loss

Oh! Pains and this pretty pus
and its claims are killers
butchers of sweetness
Rendering life ought
and hopes hyped
in depletion
down and
down
only

Life's rubbished what the world
appraise and behold
with worships
of mouth n'
so on

Bottom lines that life's like gods
who pretend to make some
live to suffer just like that
live to enjoy just like so
who praise us in pulse
to take the pulse by
force or by ease;
life plays us
for toys...
But there'd
be hope for this
man to be merry at
least for once when the
gods rest their hands on us
toys and he can enjoy things
like flowers in the picture there
bed, food, clothing, internet there.