It feels like a sin
for people who'm I don't know where have been
To talk, and tell, the dirt of their acts
Even though argue's not for sell, for it's a fact
They're ill mannered, shattering my existence of wall
Until my eyes cannot do anything but crawl
in their skin so bad
in their heart so dark
but then aren't I a problem?
For I whisper their disgrace
In the hem of a person and removes any praise
Cause I don't have any gust to tell infront of their face
The gaze that they made to me, feels scary
But I'm more scared of what it's making me
The center of the room, every inch of my paper they want
And I did not give, but a scent of fear telling me I'm a selfish daunt
Is it bad, if I want,
a fair competition of this place
Full of passion in the race
But wrong turn of trippings to slow down the pace
I am scared I called them names
and what if, those names, imprinted also on my games
And the prize I'm wanting is a selfish fame
And it will only burn me, for it became a bad flame
YOU ARE READING
One Hundred Fifty
RandomFifty, Fifty, Fifty A writing challenge for myself is to create fifty poems, fifty essays, and fifty one-shot stories, every single prekeng day to make it a hundred and fifty days of honing my skills and giving sparks to my interest. Here's the deal...
